y from it?

"Its value will not be measured by material things. It will leave
nothing. And yet it will have everything, and whatever one takes from
it, it will still have, so rich will it be. . . ." And as the words of
Oscar Wilde came to his mind Vane laughed aloud.

"This is London, my lad," he soliloquised. "London in the twentieth
century. We've a very nice war on where a man may develop his
personality; fairy tales are out of date."

He strolled on past the Ritz--his mind still busy with the problem.
Joan wanted to marry money; Joan had to marry money. At least he had
gathered so. He had asked Margaret to marry him; she had said that in
time she would--if he still wanted her. At least he had gathered so.
Those were the major issues.

The minor and more important one--because minor ones have a way of
influencing the big fellows out of all proportion to their size--was
that he had asked Joan to tea.

He sighed heavily and turned up Half Moon Street. Whatever happened
afterwards he had his duty as a host to consider first. He decided to
go in and talk to the worthy Mrs. Green, and see if by any chance that
stalwart pillar would be able to provide a tea worthy of the occasion.
Mrs. Green had a way with her, which seemed to sweep through such
bureaucratic absurdities as ration cards and food restrictions. Also,
and perhaps it was more to the point, she had a sister in Devonshire
who kept cows.

"Mrs. Green," called Vane, "come up and confer with me on a matter of
great importance. . . ."

With a wild rush Binks emerged from below as if shot from a
catapult--to be followed by Mrs. Green wiping her hands on her apron.

"A most important affair, Mrs. Green," continued Vane, when he had let
himself into his rooms, and pacified Binks temporarily with the squeaky
indiarubber dog. "Only you can save the situation. . . ."

Mrs. Green intimated by a magnificent gesture that she was fully
prepared to save any situation.

"I have visitors for tea, or rather, to be correct--a visitor. A lady
to comfort me--or perhaps torment me--as only your sex can." His eyes
suddenly rested on Margaret's photo, and he stopped with a frown. Mrs.
Green's motherly face beamed with satisfaction. Here was a Romance
with a capital R, which was as dear to her kindly heart as a Mary
Pickford film.

"I'm sure I hope you'll be very happy, sir," she said.

"So do I, Mrs. Green--though I've a shrewd suspicion, I shall be
profo