he unfailing instinct of her kind, to hide private grief and show
a brave front to the world, Helen flew to the mirror, smoothed her
tumbled hair, put away her damp handkerchief; and, standing calmly
beside the mantel-piece, one foot on the fender, awaited her unexpected
visitor.

She heard voices in the hall, then Simpkins opened the door and tried to
make an announcement, but some unseen force from behind whirled him
away, and a broad-shouldered young man in an ulster, travel-stained and
dishevelled, appeared in his stead, shut the door upon Simpkins, and
strode into the lamplight, his cloth cap still on the back of his head,
his keen dark eyes searching Helen's face eagerly.

His cap came off before he spoke to her; but, with his thick,
short-cropped hair standing on end, a bare head only added to the
wildness of his appearance.

He stopped when he reached the tea-table.

"Where's Ronnie?" he said, and he spoke as if he had been running for
many miles.

"My husband is in the studio," replied Helen, with gentle dignity.

"What's he doing?"

"I believe he is playing his 'cello."

"Oh, lor! That wretched Infant! Is he all right?"

"So far as I know."

"What time did he get here?"

"At half-past four."

The dishevelled young man glanced at the clock.

"Oh, lor!" he said again. "To think I've travelled night and day and
raced down from town in a motor to get here first, and he beat me by an
hour and a half! However, if he's all right, no harm's done."

He dropped into Ronnie's chair, and rumpled his hair still further with
his hands.

"I must try to explain," he said.

Then he lifted a rather white, very grubby face to Helen's. His lips
twitched.

"I'm dry," he said; and dropped his face into his hands.

Helen rang the bell.

"Bring whisky and soda at once," she ordered, the instant Simpkins
appeared in the doorway.

Then she crossed over, and laid her hand lightly on her visitor's broad
shoulder.

"Don't try to explain," she said kindly, "until you have had something.
I am sure I know who you are. You appear in all sorts of cricket and
football groups in Ronnie's dressing-room. You are Ronnie's special
chum, Dick Cameron."

Dick did not lift his head. As a matter of fact, at that moment he could
not. But, though his throat contracted, so that speech became
impossible, in his heart he was saying: "What a woman! Lor, what a
woman! Ninety-nine out of a hundred would have offered me tea--and te