ant. When we meet the Ashforths there mustn't be a word
said about--about--you know."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I couldn't! So soon! Surely you see that. Why, it would be hardly
civil to them, would it, apart from anything else?"

"Well, it might look rather casual."

"And I positively couldn't face John Ashforth. You promise, don't you?"

"It's a nuisance, because, you see, Dolly----

"You're not to get into the habit of saying 'Dolly'. At least not yet."

"Presently?"

"If you're good. Now promise!"

"All right."

"We're not engaged."

"All right."

"Nor thinking of it,"

"Rather not."

"That's very nice of you, and when the Ashforths are gone----"

"I shall be duly rewarded?"

"Oh, we'll see. Do come along. Papa hates being kept waiting for his
meals, and they must have finished their slums long ago."

They found Lady Deane and the General waiting for them, and the latter
proposed an adjournment to a famous restaurant near the Opera. Thither
they repaired, and ordered their lunch.

"Deane and Laing will find out where we've gone and follow," said the
General. "We won't wait," and he resumed his conversation with Lady
Deane on the events of the morning.

A moment later the absentees came in; Sir Roger in his usual leisurely
fashion, Laing; hurriedly. The latter held in his hand two telegrams,
or the crumpled debris thereof. He rushed up to the table and panted
out, "Found 'em in the pocket of my blazer--must have put 'em
there--stupid ass--never thought of it--put it on for tennis--awfully
sorry."

Wasting no time in reproaches, Dora and Charlie grasped their recovered
property.

"Excuse me!" they cried simultaneously, and opened the envelopes. A
moment later both leant back in their chairs, the pictures of helpless
bewilderment.

Dora had read: "Marriage broken off. Coming to you 28th. Write
directions--European, Paris."

Charlie had read: "Engagement at end. Aunt and I coming to
Paris--European, on 28th. Can you meet?"

Lady Deane was writing in her notebook. The General, Sir Roger, and
Laing were busy with the waiter, the menu, and the wine-list. Quick as
thought the lovers exchanged telegrams. They read, and looked at one
another.

"What does it mean?" whispered Dora.

"You never saw anything like the lives those ragpickers lead, Dora,"
observed Lady Deane, looking up from her task. "I was talking to one
this morning and he said----"

"Maitre d'hotel for me," broke in Sir Roger.

"