ou've got to waste it, sir, over them prisoners," said the man.

"Yes," agreed Vane thoughtfully. "I'll want you to drop me in the
town, and then I'll walk back over the Downs. . . . Splendid day for a
walk. . . ." He turned and found Joan beside him. "And lightning
performance," he smiled at her. "I won't be a moment."

He slipped on his coat and handed her into the car. "Drop me in the
High Street, will you--opposite to the Post Office?" he said to the
chauffeur. "I'm expecting a letter."

"I'm afraid," she said, as the car rolled down the drive, "that like
most men you're rather prone to overact." With a little, happy laugh
she snuggled up to him and slid her hand into his under the rug.

"I shall be walking home, thank you, Thomas," said Joan as she got out
of the car, and the man stood waiting for orders.

He touched his cap, and they stood watching the car go down the High
Street. Then she turned to Vane.

"You'd better see about your letters," she said demurely. "And then we
might go over the Castle. There is a most wonderful collection of
oleographic paleographs brought over by the Americans when they
discovered England. . . ."

"In one second," threatened Vane, "I shall kiss you. And I don't know
that they'd understand it here. . . ."

"They'd think we were movie actors," she gurgled, falling into step
beside him. "Do you know the way?"

"In the days of my unregenerate youth I went to the races here," he
answered. "One passes a prison or something. Anyway, does it matter?"

She gave a sigh of utter contentment. "Nothing matters, my
man--nothing at all--except that I'm with you. Only I want to get out
into the open, with the fresh wind blowing on my face--and I want to
sing for the joy of it. . . . Do you think if we sang up the town here
they'd give me pennies?"

"More probably lock us up as undesirable vagrants," laughed Vane.
"It's a county town and they're rather particular. I'm not certain
that happiness isn't an offence under the Defence of the Realm Act.
Incidentally, I don't think there would be many convictions these
days. . . ."

She stopped for a moment and faced him. "That's not allowed, Derek;
it's simply not allowed."

"Your servant craves pardon," he answered gravely, and for a while they
walked on in silence.

They passed two ragged children who had collected on their faces more
dirt than seemed humanly possible, and nothing would content Joan but
that she sh