Annette stiffened from head to foot. He met her blazing eyes with a
look of quiet devotion.

'Marry me?'

'I know what you are thinking,' he said. 'Your mind is dwelling on the
prospect of living in a house decorated throughout with Sellers'
allegorical pictures. But it won't be. We'll store them in the attic.'

She began to speak, but he interrupted her.

'Listen!' he said. 'Sit down and I will tell you the story of my life.
We'll skip the first twenty-eight years and three months, merely
mentioning that for the greater part of that time I was looking for
somebody just like you. A month and nine days ago I found you. You were
crossing the Embankment. I was also on the Embankment. In a taxi. I
stopped the taxi, got out, and observed you just stepping into the
Charing Cross Underground. I sprang--'

'This does not interest me,' said Annette.

'The plot thickens,' he assured her. 'We left our hero springing, I
think. Just so. Well, you took the West End train and got off at Sloane
Square. So did I. You crossed Sloane Square, turned up King's Road, and
finally arrived here. I followed. I saw a notice up, "Studio to Let". I
reflected that, having done a little painting in an amateur way, I
could pose as an artist all right; so I took the studio. Also the name
of Alan Beverley. My own is Bill Bates. I had often wondered what it
would feel like to be called by some name like Alan Beverley or Cyril