this tiresome season is over. I shall run across to France and wander
for a while. Eventually, I shall end up at Monte Carlo. A friend whom
I rather want to meet, will arrive there, at her villa, in October."

I knew that Jack Winston would understand, for he had not been the
only one last winter who had written letters. But Jack was of no
importance to me at the instant. I was talking at Helen, and she, too,
would understand. I hoped that, in understanding, she would suffer a
pang, a small, insignificant, poor relation of the pang inflicted upon
me.

It is a thing unexplained by science why the miserable hours of our
lives should he fifty times the length of happy hours, though stupid
clocks, seeing nothing beyond their own hands, record both with the
same measurement. If we had sat at this prettily decorated dinner
table in the Carlton restaurant (I had thought it pretty at first, so
I give it the benefit of the doubt) through the night into the next
day, while other people ate breakfast and even luncheon, the moments
could not have dragged more heavily. But when it appeared that we must
have reached a ripe old age--those of us who had been young with the
evening--Lady Blantock thought we might have coffee in the "palm
court." We had it, and by rising at last, sweet Molly Winston saved me
from doing the musicians a mischief. "Lord Lane, you promised to let
us drop you, in the car," she said to me. "Oh, I don't mean to 'drop
you' literally. Our auto has no naughty ways. I hope we are not
carrying you off too soon."

[Illustration: "WE REALLY WANT YOU, SAID MOLLY".]

Too soon! I could have kissed her. "Angel," I murmured, when we were