companion. What would Mr. Triggs say? She could see his forehead
corrugated with trying to understand what pride had to do with love.
Even Elton, self-restrained, almost self-sufficient, admitted that Mr.
Triggs was right.

If she let Peter go? A year hence, a month perhaps, she might have
lost him. Of what use would her pride be then? She had not known
before; but now she knew how much Peter meant to her. Since he had
come into her life everything had changed, and she had grown
discontented with the things that, hitherto, she had tacitly accepted
as her portion.

"You're fretting, me dear!" Mr. Triggs's remark came back to her. She
recalled how indignant she had been. Why? Because it was true. She
had been cross. She remembered the old man's anxiety lest he had
offended her. She almost smiled as she recalled his clumsy effort to
explain away his remark.

She had heard someone knock gently at her door, once, twice, three
times. She made no response. Then Gustave's voice whispered, "Tea is
served in the looaunge, mees." She heard him creep away with clumsy
stealth. There was a sweet-natured creature. He could never disguise
an emotion. He had come upstairs during the raid, though in obvious
terror, in order to save her. Mr. Triggs, Gustave, Elton, all were
against her. She knew that in some subtle way they were working to
fight _her_ pride.

For some time longer she lay, then suddenly she sprang up. First she
bathed her face, then undid her hair, finally she changed her frock and
powdered her nose.

"Hurry up, Patricia! or you may think better of it," she cried to her
reflection in the glass. "This is a race with spinsterhood."

Going downstairs quietly she went to the telephone.

"Gerrard 60000," she called, conscious that both her voice and her
knees were unsteady.

After what seemed an age there came the reply, "Quadrant Hotel."

"Is Lord Peter Bowen in?" she enquired. "Thank you," she added in
response to the clerk's promise to enquire.

Her hand was shaking. She almost dropped the receiver. He must be
out, she told herself, after what seemed to her an age of waiting. If
he were in they would have found him. Perhaps he had already started
for----

"Who is that?" It was Bowen's voice.

Patricia felt she could sing. So he had not gone! Would her knees
play her false and cheat her?

"It's--it's me," she said, regardless of grammar.

"That's delightful; but who is me?" ca