IVOR TRAVELS TO PARIS

It is rather a startling sensation for a man to be caught suddenly by
the nape of the neck, so to speak, and pitched out of heaven down
to--the other place.

But that was what happened to me when I arrived at Victoria Station, on
my way to Paris.

I had taken my ticket and hurried on to the platform without too much
time to spare (I'd been warned not to risk observation by being too
early) when I came face to face with the girl whom, at any other time, I
should have liked best to meet: whom at that particular time I least
wished to meet: Diana Forrest.

"The Imp"--Lisa Drummond--was with her: but I saw only Di at first--Di,
looking a little pale and harassed, but beautiful as always. Only last
night I had told her that Paris had no attractions for me. I had said
that I didn't care to see Maxine de Renzie: yet here I was on the way to
see her, and here was Di discovering me in the act of going to see, her.

Of course I could lie; and I suppose some men, even men of honour, would
think it justifiable as well as wise to lie in such a case, when
explanations were forbidden. But I couldn't lie to a girl I loved as I
love Diana Forrest. It would have sickened me with life and with myself
to do it: and it was with the knowledge in my mind that I could not and
would not lie, that I had to greet her with a conventional "Good
morning."