opening chapters, had at once made him an offer for the story, and the
publishing house with which he was connected, although of only recent
development, had already made a name and attained a unique position. He
gave up the club, and worked steadily every night at his rooms,
resolutely thrusting aside all alien thoughts, and immensely relieved to
find the excitement of literary creation gradually attaining its old
hold upon him. He took his meals at a shabby little restaurant, which
none of his associates frequented, declined all invitations, and retired
for the next seven days into an obscurity from which nothing could tempt
him. There came no word from Emily de Reuss, for which he was thankful,
and when he left the office at six o'clock on Thursday evening, and
lighting a cigarette strolled through a network of streets towards the
restaurant where he was to meet Cicely, he had very much the feeling of
a schoolboy whose tasks were laid aside and whose holiday lay before
him.

Cicely was there already, looking wonderfully bright and pretty, wearing
a new hat and a black and white dress, which, after her country-made
mourning, seemed positively smart. Douglas drew her hand through his
arm as they entered the room, and felt a pleasant sensation of
proprietorship at her laughing surrender. He chose a table where they
would least likely be disturbed, and imperilled his reputation with the
smiling waiter by ignoring the inevitable Chianti and calling for
champagne. Cicely reproved him for his extravagance, but sipped her
wine with the air of a connoisseur.

"I couldn't help it," he said, smiling. "You know I've years of
parsimony and misery to make up for yet. This new life is so
delightful, and since you have come--well, I couldn't help celebrating.
Besides, you know, I'm earning quite a good deal of money, and I've