"Graves," he added, to the servant who stood in the doorway, "when
you have closed the door behind Mr. Meredith, bring up breakfast, if
you please."

On the doorstep Jack Meredith looked at his watch. He had an
appointment with Millicent Chyne at half-past eleven--an hour when
Lady Cantourne might reasonably be expected to be absent at the
weekly meeting of a society which, under the guise and nomenclature
of friendship, busied itself in making servant girls discontented
with their situations.

It was only eleven o'clock. Jack turned to the left, out of the
quiet but fashionable street, and a few steps took him to
Piccadilly. He went into the first jeweller's shop he saw, and
bought a plain diamond ring. Then he walked on to keep his
appointment with his affianced wife.

Miss Millicent Chyne was waiting for him with that mixture of
maidenly feelings of which the discreet novelist only details a
selection. It is not customary to dwell upon thoughts of vague
regret at the approaching withdrawal of a universal admiration--at
the future necessity for discreet and humdrum behaviour quite devoid
of the excitement that lurks in a double meaning. Let it,
therefore, be ours to note the outward signs of a very natural
emotion. Miss Chyne noted them herself with care, and not without a
few deft touches to hair and dress. When Jack Meredith entered the
room she was standing near the window, holding back the curtain with
one hand and watching, half shyly, for his advent.