whose ebullient natures enable them to rise unscathed
from the worst snub. Wally, her intuition told her, was not that kind
of man.

There was only one way of mending the matter. In these clashes of
human temperaments, these sudden storms that spring up out of a clear
sky, it is possible sometimes to repair the damage, if the
psychological moment is resolutely seized, by talking rapidly and with
detachment on neutral topics. Words have made the rift, and words
alone can bridge it. But neither Jill nor her companion could find
words, and the silence lengthened grimly. When Wally spoke, it was in
the level tones of a polite stranger.

"Your friends have gone."

His voice was the voice in which, when she went on railway journeys,
fellow-travellers in the carriage enquired of Jill if she would prefer
the window up or down. It had the effect of killing her regrets and
feeding her resentment. She was a girl who never refused a challenge,
and she set herself to be as frigidly polite and aloof as he.

"Really?" she said. "When did they leave?"

"A moment ago." The lights gave the warning flicker that announces the
arrival of the hour of closing. In the momentary darkness they both
rose. Wally scrawled his name across the bill which the waiter had
insinuated upon his attention. "I suppose we had better be moving?"

They crossed the room in silence. Everybody was moving in the same
direction. The broad stairway leading to the lobby was crowded with
chattering supper-parties. The light had gone up again.

At the cloak-room Wally stopped.

"I see Underhill waiting up there," he said casually. "To take you
home, I suppose. Shall we say good-night? I'm staying in the hotel."

Jill glanced towards the head of the stairs. Derek was there. He was
alone. Lady Underhill presumably had gone up to her room in the
elevator.

Wally was holding out his hand. His face was stolid and his eyes
avoided hers.

"Good-bye," he said.

"Good-bye," said Jill.

She felt curiously embarrassed. At this last moment hostility had
weakened, and she was conscious of a desire to make amends. She and
this man had been through much together that night, much that was
perilous and much that was pleasant. A sudden feeling of remorse came
over her.

"You'll come and see us, won't you?" she said a little wistfully. "I'm
sure my uncle would like to meet you again."

"It's very good of you," said Wally, "but I'm afraid I shall be going
back to Ameri