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“Look here, Miss Bellairs,” said Charlie, “we agreed to stand by one another. I shall wait and go when you do.”

“But think—-.”

“I’ve thought.”

“You’re risking everything.”

“If she’ll break it off ten days before, she’ll do the same four days before.”

“If she really loves you she will.”

“Anyhow we’ll stand or fall together.”

“Oh, I oughtn’t to let you, but I can’t refuse. How kind you are!”

“Then that’s settled,” said Charlie, “And we must try to console one another till then.”

“The suspense is awful, isn’t it?”

“Of course. But we must appear cheerful. We mustn’t betray ourselves.”

“Not for the world! I can never thank you enough. You’ll come with us all the way?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you again.”

She gave him her hand, which he pressed gently.

“Hullo!” said he. “We seem to have got up by the church somewhere. Where were we going to?”

“Why, to Rumpelmayer’s.”

“Oh, ah! Well, let’s go back to the hotel.”

Wonderings on the extraordinary coincidence, with an occasional reference to the tender tie of a common sorrow which bound them together, beguiled the journey back, and when they reached the hotel Dora was quite calm. Charlie seemed distinctly cheerful, and when his companion left him he sat down by Deane and remarked in a careless way, just as if he neither knew nor cared what the rest of them were going to do, “Well, I shall light out of here in a few days. I suppose you’re staying some time longer?”

“Off in a week,” said Sir Roger.

“Oh, by Jove, that’s about my mark. Going back to England?”

“Yes, I suppose–so–ultimately. We shall stay a few days in Paris en route. The Bellairs’ go with us.”

“Oh, do they?”

Sir Roger smiled gently.

“Surprised?” he asked.

Charlie ignored the question.

“And you aren’t going to hurry?” he inquired.

“Why should we?”

Charlie sat silent. It was tolerably plain that, unless the few days en route were very few indeed, John Ashforth and Mary Travers were in a fair way to be prosperously and peacefully married before Dora Bellairs set foot in England. And if he stayed with the Bellairs’, before he did, either! Charlie lit a cigarette and sat puffing and thinking.

“Dashed nice girl, Dora Bellairs,” observed Sir Roger.

“Think so?”

“I do. She’s the only girl I ever saw that Laing was smitten with.”

“Laing!” said Charlie.

“Well, what’s the matter? He’s an uncommon good chap, Laing–one of the best chaps I know–and he’s got lots of coin. I don’t expect she’d sneeze at Laing.”

It is, no doubt, taking a very serious responsibility to upset an arrangement arrived at deliberately and carried almost to a conclusion. A man should be very sure that he can make a woman happy–happier than any other man could-before he asks her to face the turmoil and the scandal of breaking off her marriage only a week before its celebration. Sure as he may be of his own affection, he must be equally sure of hers, equally sure that their mutual love is deep and permanent. He must consider his claims to demand such a sacrifice. What remorse will be his if, afterwards, he discovers that what he did was not, in truth, for her real happiness! He must be on his guard against mere selfishness or mere vanity masquerading in the garb of a genuine passion.

As these thoughts occurred to Charlie Ellerton he felt that he was at a crisis of his life. He also felt glad that he had still a quiet week at Cannes in which to revolve these considerations in his mind. Above all, he must do nothing hastily.

Dora came out, a book in her hand. Her soft white frock fluttered in the breeze, and she pushed back a loose lock of dark hair that caressed her check.

“A dashed nice girl, upon my honor,” said Sir Roger Deane.

“Oh, very.”

“I say, old chap, I suppose you’re in no hurry. You’ll put in a few days in Paris? We might have a day out, mightn’t we?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Charlie, and, when Deane left him, he sat on in solitude.