to herself as a "morning after the
party" feeling. She was puzzled to account for the tears. What had
she been dreaming of to make her cry?

Every time the thought of her adventure presented itself, she put it
resolutely aside. She was angry with herself, angry with the world,
angry with one Lieutenant-Colonel Peter Bowen. Why, she could not have
explained.

"Oh, bother!" she exclaimed, as she made a fourth correction in the
same letter. "Going out is evidently not good for you, Patricia."

She spent the day alternately in wondering what Bowen was thinking of
her, and deciding that he was not thinking of her at all. Finally,
with a feeling of hot shame, she remembered to what thoughts she had
laid herself open. Her one consolation was that she would never see
him again. Then, woman-like, she wondered whether he would make an
effort to see her. Would he be content with his dismissal?

For the first time during their association, the rising politician was
conscious that his secretary was anxious to get off sharp to time. At
five minutes to five she resolutely put aside her notebook, and banged
the cover on to her typewriter. Mr. Bonsor looked up at this unwonted
energy and punctuality on Patricia's part, and with a tactful interest
in the affairs of others that he was endeavouring to cultivate for
political purposes, he enquired:

"Going out?"

"No," snapped Patricia, "I'm going home."

Mr. Bonsor raised his eyebrows in astonishment. He was a mild-mannered
man who had learned the value of silence when faced by certain phases
of feminine psychological phenomena. He therefore made no comment; but
he watched his secretary curiously as she swiftly left the room.

Jabbing the pins into her hat and throwing herself into her coat,
Patricia was walking down the steps of the rising politician's house in
Eaton Square as the clock struck five. She walked quickly in the
direction of Sloane Square Railway Station. Suddenly she slackened her
speed. Why was she hurrying home? She felt herself blushing hotly,
and became furiously angry as if discovered in some humiliating act.
Then with one of those odd emotional changes characteristic of her, she
smiled.

"Patricia Brent," she murmured, "I think a little walk won't do you any
harm," and she strolled slowly up Sloane Street and across the Park to
Bayswater.

Her hand trembled as she put the key in the door and opened it. She
looked swiftly in the direction