She’d let herself go; she’d thought that her brains counted for more than her looks. When she had sent Maurice away she’d been on the threshold of success. Her first book had been published and the critics were enthusiastic. She had thought that her career must stand first; she couldn’t make up her mind to go with Maurice to India. India belonged to Kipling, but London was hers.

She had had her success; men called her “great”; she was the biggest satirist of her day; she had hosts of friends but she was lonely, for none of the men who admired her genius considered her as a woman. She was a “good fellow”; she was witty, and unusual, and an invigorating companion, but she was too downright to be attractive, too competent and independent.

“One thing is certain,” she told her mirrored self. “You can’t meet him like this. You’re a perfect sight.”

THE long, low touring car, the pride of Helen’s heart, was nearing its destination. Helen sat in the back of it, consumed with unaccustomed nervousness. She was a transformed being. She wore a marvellous little hat over carefully waved hair; her face had been massaged and very skilfully and delicately rouged; her feet were in high-heeled shoes, and a sable coat hid a frock that spelled Paquin quite unmistakably.

“I shall never keep it up,” she thought. “Damn these shoes! Yes, and that’s one of the things I must not say. This man will be the death of my poor car!”

She leaned forward to say a few well-chosen words to her chauffeur but remembered in time her new rôle of helpless femininity. But it was hard to see her car driven by anyone but herself.

They swept into the drive of the Dering’s house; Helen saw Anne on the porch, and Don, her husband, and a tall, square-shouldered figure, the sight of whom made her heart do strange things

“Don’ll give it away, sure as eggs is eggs,” she thought desperately. “I was a fool to come!”

The car drew up; Helen pulled herself together and gazed limpidly into Anne’s astonished eyes.

“Dear Anne!” she murmured, and sweetly smiled.

Anne recovered herself with an effort, and stepped forward.

“Dear Helen!” she cooed.

Maurice was waiting to hand Helen out of the car; as she stepped down she looked at him from under her darkened lashes, and her pulses beat fast. He was the same, save for a few grey hairs at his temples. His eyes held the grave, honest look she remembered so well, and—yes, they were full of admiration.

Don, who had been standing as though rooted to the spot, opened his mouth.

“Good lord, Helen, what in thunder—”

“How delightful to see you, Don!” Helen said and held out her hand. As he took it, struggling for words, she trod heavily on his toe, and whispered:

“Shut up, you fool!”

Don looked rather relieved: this was the Helen he knew, and liked. What she was doing in these extraordinary clothes, and why she talked in a soft, society manner he could not imagine. However, he understood that he was to say nothing, so he grinned cheerfully and wrung her hand.