atched him as he moved between the tables; then she
looked at Vane. "Your recollections are all wrong," she said softly.
The grey eyes held no hint of mockery in them now, they were sweetly
serious, and once again Vane gripped the table hard. His head was
beginning to swim and he felt that he would shortly make a profound
fool of himself.

"Do you think you're being quite kind, grey girl," he said in a low
voice which he strove to keep calm.

For a few moments she played with the spoon on her coffee cup, and
suddenly with a great rush of pure joy, which well-nigh choked him,
Vane saw that her hand was trembling.

"Are _you_?" He scarcely heard the whispered words above the noise
around.

"I don't care whether I am or not." His voice was low and exultant.
He looked round, and saw that Baxter was threading his way back towards
them. "This afternoon, Joan, tea in my rooms." He spoke swiftly and
insistently. "You've just got to meet Binks. . . ."

And then, before she could answer, he was gone. . . .

CHAPTER XII

Vane walked along Piccadilly a prey to conflicting emotions. Dominant
amongst them was a wild elation at what he had seen in Joan's eyes, but
a very good second was the uncomfortable remembrance of Margaret. What
did he propose to do?

He was not a cad, and the game he was playing struck him rather
forcibly as being uncompromisingly near the caddish. Did he, or did he
not, mean to make love to the girl he had just left at the Savoy? And
if he did, to what end?

A crowd of lunchers coming out of Prince's checked him for a moment or
two, and forced him into the arms of an officer and a girl who were
standing, apparently waiting for a taxi. Almost unconsciously he took
stock of them, even as he apologised. . . .

The girl, a pretty little thing, but utterly mediocre and
uninteresting, was clinging to the officer's arm, a second lieutenant
in the Tank Corps.

"Do you think we ought to take a taxi, Bill? Let's go on a 'bus. . . ."

"No damn fear," returned Bill. "Let's blow the lot while we're about
it. I'm going back to-morrow. . . ."

Then Vane pushed past them, with that brief snapshot of a pair of lives
photographed on his brain. And it would have effaced itself as quickly
as it had come, but for the very new wedding ring he had seen on the
girl's left hand--so new that to conceal it with a glove was simply not
to be thought of.

Money--money--money; was there no getting awa