"Oh, of course not," said Deb off-handedly. "Just give him my card,
please, and say I'm very glad to hear he is not as ill as I feared."

On pain of dismissal from the best service he had ever known--and he
had known it now for a long time--Manton had to find the lady's
address. As soon as it was supplied to him, Claud sent for her to come
and see him.

"Are we not old enough now to dispense with chaperons?" he wrote; and
the sight of his hand-writing after all these long years moved
her strangely. "If you think not, bring the deafest old post of your
acquaintance. Only DO come. I haven't had anybody to speak to for a
week."

"Of course we are old enough," commented Deb, as she read the words.
"The idea of fussing about chaperons and that nonsense at our time of
life!" And she proceeded to array herself in her most youthful summer
dress, which was also the choicest of her stock, taking the utmost
pains to match toque and gloves, while full of indignation against his
friends for so shamefully neglecting him.

Boldly she ascended to his sitting-room in the wake of tight-lipped
Manton, who presently brought tea, and at intervals tended the fire,
apparently without once casting an eye upon her. Claud was up and
dressed in her honour, while fit only for his bed. In the midst of the
refined luxury that he had gathered about him, he looked but the ghost
of a man, worn with his illness and the fatigue of preparing for her.
It was one of those English summers that never answered to its name,
and he sat in a sable-lined overcoat--considered more respectful than