had loved as a child, was leaving them and plunging into this strange,
unknown adventure. What an uncertain thing marriage, what an elusive
thing happiness! At nights she would dream of white satin figures
shrouded in white tulle veils, of shy, passionate bridegrooms and shy,
radiant brides. Sometimes she would see Vera's face and sometimes her
own and often in the morning, she would find her pillow wet. "It will be
you and Simpson next," Sir Harry teased her. But somehow the remark no
longer pleased her and she no longer blushed.

And then, one day she couldn't bear it any more. Without saying a word
to any one she went to London. A thick orange fog greeted her, a
wonderful, mysterious fog, creating immense prehistoric silhouettes, a
fog which freed you from old accustomed sights and sounds so that your
individuality seemed at last to be released and to belong exclusively to
you.

Gratefully Miss Wilcox accepted this gift of privacy. London belonged to
her, there were no prying eyes. Slowly she walked along the pavement
peering into shop windows. It was difficult to see anything. At last
she distinguished a blur of gold and jewels. She walked on and then back
again. She stood still. Her heart was in her mouth. Resolutely she
pushed the door open. The brightness blinded her, the sudden warmth made
her feel dizzy. Weakly she sat on a chair. A sympathetic salesman asked
her if he could do anything for her. "No, thank you," she murmured
faintly, "if I might sit here a moment."

Gradually she recovered and walked out again. The fog was thicker than
ever. The traffic had stopped. People bumped into her with muttered
apologies. Hesitatingly, wearily, she walked along. At last, she reached
another jeweller's. Firmly, quickly she walked in. How was she to ask