menials and showing to hosts the reflected glow of the golden
prospects before him; but for this evening the glory had departed.
Besides, it was his last evening there, and London's welcome
tomorrow would be none too exuberant.

The little party was breaking up, the ladies retiring for the night,
and the men about to accompany Colonel Winwood to the library for a
final drink and cigarette. Paul shook hands with Miss Winwood.

"Good night--and good-bye," she said, "if you take the early
train. But must you really go to-morrow?"

"I must," said Paul.

"I hope we'll very soon be seeing you again. Give me your address."
She moved to a bridge table and caught up the marking block, which
she brought to him. "Now I've forgotten the pencil."

"I've got one," said Paul, and impulsively thrusting his fingers
into his waistcoat pocket, flicked them out with the pencil. But he
also flicked out the mean-looking card of which he had been
hatefully conscious all the evening. The Imp of Mischance arranged
that as Miss Winwood stood close by his side, it should fall,
unperceived by him, on the folds of her grey velvet train. He wrote
the Bloomsbury address and handed her the leaf torn from the pad.
She folded it up, moved away, turning back to smile. As she turned
she happened to look downward; then she stooped and picked the card
from her dress. A conjecture of horror smote Paul. He made a step
forward and stretched out his hand; but not before she had
instinctively glanced first at the writing and then at his barren