They drove up to London almost in silence. It was nearly seven o'clock when John swung the little car in Pont Street. It was still raining softly.

"Thank you very much," he said, "for my week-end. I enjoyed the river immensely yesterday afternoon."

"And thank you very much for everything, Mr. John Strangewey," she returned. "You have given me what we are all sighing for, a new sensation--not exactly what I expected, perhaps, but something new."

"I know you think I am a country yokel and a fool," John said; "but I wish you'd tell me why you laughed at me in that mysterious fashion."

She shook her head.

"It would spoil it," she replied. "Besides, it isn't for me to tell you.

I am the last person who should."

They drew up outside her little house, from which came no sign of light.

"Will you dine with me to-night?" he asked suddenly.

She turned toward him quickly--and understood.

"Very nice of you," she replied lightly. "I shall go round to my club.

You don't agree with me, somehow. When I look at you or think of you, I feel inclined either to laugh or cry, and I hate emotions. Don't get out, please. You see, they are opening the door already."

She slipped away and disappeared into her house. John drove slowly back toward the Milan. Just as he was turning in, a little waterproofed figure from the pavement waved her hand and called to him. He drew up and she hastened to his side.

"What are you doing here?" Sophy asked. "I thought you were spending the week-end up the river."

"I stayed there last night," he answered. "To-day--well, look at the weather! I have just motored Lady Hilda up."

"And what are you going to do now?" she inquired eagerly.

"Give you some dinner," he replied promptly.

"Hurrah!" she answered. "I have been so bored and miserable that I went and walked over Waterloo Bridge in a mackintosh, just to get a little air. I'll be round in an hour. Will that do?"

"Any time you like," he agreed; "the sooner the better. I was almost wishing, a few minutes ago," he went on, "that I could find the courage to storm you in your little room. Louise is away, and I'm hating myself."

"So I am to come and amuse my lord!" she laughed. "Well, I'll come," she went on quickly. "We'll sit and you shall imagine that I am Louise, and make love to her. Will that make you happy?"

John leaned out of the car.

"Sophy," he whispered, as he slipped in his clutch, "just now I do not feel like making love to any woman on earth!"

"Fed up with us, eh?"

He nodded.

"You're different, thank Heaven! Don't be late."

XXIII

"This is very nearly my idea of perfect happiness," Sophy murmured, as she leaned across the table and listened idly while John ordered the dinner. "Give me very little to eat, John, and talk a great deal to me.

I am depressed about myself and worried about everything!"

"And I," he declared, "am just beginning to breathe again. I don't think I understand women, Sophy."

"Wasn't your week-end party a success?" she asked.

"Not altogether," he confessed; "but don't let's talk about it. Tell me what is depressing you."

"About myself, or things generally?"

"Yourself, first."

"Well, the most respectable young man you ever knew in your life, who lives in Bath, wants me to marry him. I don't think I could. I don't think I could live in Bath, and I don't think I could marry any one. And I've just thirteen shillings and fourpence left, I haven't paid my rent, and my dressmaker is calling for something on account on Monday morning."

"There's only one answer to that," John insisted cheerfully. "I am going to lend you fifty pounds while you make your mind up about the young man."

She made a face at him.

"I couldn't borrow money from a strange gentleman," she protested.

"Rubbish!" he exclaimed. "If you begin calling me a stranger--but there, never mind! We'll see about that after dinner. Now what is the other cause for depression?"

"I am not very happy about you and Louise," she observed.

"Why not?"

She hesitated. While she seemed to be pondering over her words, John studied her almost critically. Unquestionably she was very pretty; her fair hair was most becomingly arranged, her pet.i.te features and delicate mouth were charming. Her complexion and coloring were exquisite, her neck and throat very white against the plain black satin of her gown.

"In a way," she confessed at last, "it's the play that's bothering me."

"The play?" he repeated.

"You won't like it," she sighed. "The reason the production has been delayed so long is Graillot's insistence upon calling a spade a spade.

Even with all Louise and Miles Faraday have managed to get him to leave out, there is one scene which is certainly a little startling for English playgoers."

"And Louise is in it?" he asked.

"Louise is the princ.i.p.al figure in it."

John's face darkened a little.

"I have noticed lately," he remarked gloomily, "that she rather avoids talking about the play. I wish she'd chuck it altogether!"

Sophy shook her head.