She sprang up and faced me with the light of battle in her eyes. The flush had come back to her cheeks, her lips were parted, and the rope of pearls round her neck rose and fell with her quick, excited breathing. I shall not easily forget the picture she presented at that moment. The room was lit by a single central globe, and against the background of dark oak panels her black dress was almost invisible.

Standing outside the white circle of light, her slim fragile body was hidden, but through the shadows I could see the shimmer of her spun gold hair and the wonderful line of her gleaming white arms and shoulders.

"Anything you like!" she repeated in confident gay challenge.

"I hold you to that."

Fifteen years ago I bought a scarab-ring in Luxor. After losing it once a day for a fortnight, I had it fitted with ingenious couplings so designed that when I caught it in a glove the couplings drew tight and clamped the ring to the finger. When last I found myself in Egypt, my Arab goldsmith had been gathered to his fathers, and the secret of those couplings is vested in myself. Three London and two Parisian jewellers have told me they could unravel the mystery by cutting the ring to pieces. Short of that, they confessed themselves baffled.

"Hold out your hand, Joyce," I said. "No, the other one. There!"

I slipped the ring on to her third finger, stepped back to the table, and lit a cigarette. This last was purely for effect.

Joyce looked at the ring and tried to move it.

"No good," I said. "You may cut the ring, which would be a pity because it's unique; and it's not yours till you've won the wager. Or you may amputate the finger, which also would be a pity, as that too ... well, anyway, it won't be yours to amputate if I win the bet."

Again she tried to move the ring, again without success.

"Will you take it off, please?"

I shook my head.

"You said I might fix the wager."

"Take it off, please!" she repeated, frowning disapproval upon me.

Unfortunately, like Mrs. Hilary Musgrave, she looks uncommonly well when she disapproves.

"Shall we go back now?" I suggested. "I've finished my cigar."

"A joke may be carried too far," she exclaimed, stamping her foot as I remember seeing her stamp it as a wicked, flaxen-haired child of five.

"Heaven witness I'm not joking!" I protested. "Nothing I could say would move you in your present frame of mind; the wager gave me my chance. It's a ring against a hand, and on the day that sees you separated from your infernal cause, I come to claim my reward. As long as you and the cause remain unseparated you may keep the ring. I'm backing my luck; I always do, and it never fails me."

Joyce gave the ring a last despairing tug, and then with some difficulty drew the finger of her glove over it.

"How long must I wait before I may have the ring cut?" she asked.

I had not considered that.

"Till my death?" I suggested.

"Sooner than that, I hope."

"Oh, so do I. I want to win the wager and get my stakes back."

Joyce passed out before me into the quadrangle, buttoning her glove as she went. I was feeling elated by what had passed, elated and quite deliciously surprised to find how short-lived her anger had been.

"I'm afraid I'm bound up with the cause more intimately than you think," she began with unexpected gentleness. "For--let me see--three years now people have been trying to show me the error of my ways, and I go on just the same. Men and women, friends and relations, a Suffragan Bishop...."

"Quite a proper distinction," I interrupted. "Neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring."

"...and the only result is that I sink daily deeper into the mire."

"But this is where I come in."

"Too late, I'm afraid. Listen. I used to have a little money of my own. I've sold out every stock and share I possessed to help found the _New Militant_. I'm living on the salary they pay me to edit it. That looks like business, doesn't it?"

I straightened my tie, buttoned the last button of my gloves, and mounted the first step of the Hall stairs.

"Living out in the East," I said, "I have learnt the virtue of infinite patience."

Joyce remained silent. It occurred to me that I had left an important question unasked.

"When I win my wager," I began.

"You won't."

"Assume I do. No one likes losing bets, but would you seriously object to the consequences?"

Joyce gave me the wonderful dawn of a smile before replying.

"I've never given the matter a thought," she answered.

"Subconsciously?" I suggested in a manner worthy of the Seraph.

She shook her head.

"Well, give it a thought now," I begged.

"It wouldn't make much difference whether I objected or not."

"If you honestly object, if you think the whole thing's a joke in questionable taste, I'll take the ring off here and now."

Joyce began to unbutton her glove, then stopped and looked at me. I suppose my voice must have shown I was speaking seriously; her eyes were soft and kind.

"I think any girl 'ud be very lucky...." she began. I bowed, and as I did so an imp of mischief took possession of her tongue. "...very lucky indeed--to engage your roving affection."

"That wasn't what you started to say."

"I never know what I _am_ going to say. That's why I'm so good on a platform."

"Shall I take the ring off?"

"I prefer to win it in fair fight."

"If you can," I rejoined, as we pressed our way into the bright warmth of the ball-room.

My charges appeared to be profiting by my absence. Couple after couple floated by with touching heads and dreamy eyes; half-way down the room Philip was whispering in Gladys' ear and making her smile; I caught a glimpse of Robin and Cynthia; then Sylvia and the Seraph glided past.