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“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t been there since the fifties. Is it still like what it used to be?”

“How should I know?” inquired Sir Roger. “I’m not a student of social phenomena. Maud is, so she wants to go.”

Lady Deane was looking on with a quiet smile.

“She never mentioned it,” protested the General.

“Oh, of course if there’s a worse place now!” conceded Sir Roger.

“I’ll make up my mind when we arrive,” observed Lady Deane. “Anyhow I shall rely on you, General.”

The General looked a little uncomfortable.

“If Deane doesn’t object—-.”

“I shouldn’t think of taking my wife to such places.”

Suddenly Dora Bellairs rushed up to them.

“Have you seen Mr. Ellerton?” she cried. “Where is he?”

“In the smoking-room,” answered Sir Roger. “Do you want him?”

“Would you mind? I can’t go in there: it’s full of men.”

“After all we must be somewhere,” pleaded Sir Roger as he went on his errand.

“Dolly,” said the General, “I’ve just made a charming arrangement. Lady Deane and Sir Roger start for Paris to-day week, and we’re going with them. You said you’d like another week here.”

“It’s charming our being able to go together, isn’t it?” said Lady Deane. Dora’s face did not express rapture, yet she liked the Deanes very much.

“Oh, but—-” she began.

“Well?” asked her father.

“I rather want to go a little sooner.”

“I’m afraid,” said Lady Deane, “we shan’t get Roger to move before then. He’s bent on seeing the tennis tournament through. When did you want to go, Dora?”

“Well, in fact–to–night.”

“My dear Dolly, what a weathercock you are! It’s impossible. I’m dining with the Grand Duke on Monday. You must make up your mind to stay, young woman.”

“Oh, please, papa—-.”

“But why do you want to go?” asked the General, rather impatiently.

Dora had absolutely no producible reason for her eagerness to go. And yet–Oh, if they only knew what was at stake! “We’re to be married in a fortnight!” She could see the words dancing before her eyes. And she must waste a precious week here!

“Do you want me, Miss Bellairs?” asked Charlie Ellerton, coming up to them.

“Yes. I want–oh, I want to go to Rumpelmayer’s.”

“All right. Come along. I’m delighted to go with you.”

They walked off in silence. Dora was in distress. She saw that the General was immovable.

Suddenly Charlie turned to her and remarked,

“Well, it’s all over with me, Miss Bellairs.”

“What? How do you mean?”

“My chance is gone. They’re to be married in a fortnight. I had a letter to say so this morning.”

Dora turned suddenly to him.

“Oh, but it’s too extraordinary,” she cried. “So had I!”

“What?”

“Why, a letter to say they were to be married in a fortnight.”

“Nonsense!”

“Yes. Mr. Ellerton–who–who is your friend?”

“Her name’s Mary Travers.”

“And who is she going–to marry?”

“Ah! She hasn’t told me that.”

A suspicion of the truth struck them both. Charlie produced his letter.

“She writes,” he said, showing the postmark, “from Dittington.”

“It is! It is!” she cried. “It must be Mary Travers that Mr. Ashforth is going to marry!”

“Is that your friend?”

“Yes. Is she pretty, Mr. Ellerton?”

“Oh, awfully. What sort of a fellow is he?”

“Splendid!”

“Isn’t it a deuced queer thing?”

“Most extraordinary. And when we told one another we never thought—-.”

“How could we?”

“Well, no, we couldn’t, of course.”

A pause followed. Then Charlie observed: “I suppose there’s nothing to be done.”

“Nothing to be done, Mr. Ellerton! Why if I were a man I’d leave for England tonight.”

“And why can’t you?”

“Papa won’t. But you might.”

“Ye–es, I suppose I might. It would look rather odd, wouldn’t it?”

“Why, you yourself suggested it!”

“Yes, but the marriage was a long way off then.”

“There’s the more reason now for haste.”

“Of course, that’s true, but—-.”

“Oh, if papa would only take me!” A sudden idea seemed to strike Charlie; he assumed an air of chivalrous sympathy. “When shall you go?” he asked. “Not till to-day week,” she said. “We shan’t get to England till three or four days before it.” Dora knew nothing of the proposed stay in Paris.