"To all intents and purposes, it's finished," he gasped.

"Thank God," I murmured faintly.

"It will be an awful loss to me," he stated mournfully.

"It isn't dead yet," I said with feeble jocularity.

"It is sad to see your children leave you. To watch them step out into a
cold, inhospitable world," he went on.

"A warm, welcoming world," I amended dishonestly. "You haven't told me
what it is called yet."

"It isn't called anything. I want you to be its god-mother, Charlotte.
What about 'Whither'?"

"Too like a pamphlet," I was glad to be on firm ground again.

"I thought about 'Fate's Laboratory,' but it isn't very rhythmical, is
it?"

"Not very," I agreed.

"The question mark after the 'Whither' would look nice on the cover," he
reflected regretfully.

I brightened. This was the old Delancey. The Delancey of the _Saturday
Evening Post_ and the _Strand_, of the taffetas curtains and the cottage
in Devonshire. By my sudden glow of gladness I realised how much I had