'It's nothing of the sort,' he blurted, putting aside her hand. 'I--I
really do--I love you. You're different from any other girl I ever met.'

'My dear, you mustn't say such things. You know you don't love me as you
will the right girl when you meet her.'

He got out of the chair by getting over its arm. 'I beg your pardon,
Elise,' he said, not without a certain shy dignity. 'I meant every word
I said--but I suppose there's some one else.'

'Only a dream-man, Horace.'

'What about that American?'

'What--American?' Her agitation was something she could hardly have
explained.

'That author-fellow at Roselawn. He was frightfully keen on you. I
remember half-a-dozen times when he would be talking to us, and if you
came in he'd go as mum as an oyster, and just follow you with his eyes.
Is _he_ the chap, Elise?'

'Good gracious!'--she forced a laugh-- 'why, I don't even know where he
is.'

'Don't you? He's in London; I can tell you that much. Last month in
France I ran across that Doosenberry-Jewdrop fellow---you know--the
futurist artist.'

'Do you mean Johnston Smyth?'

'That's the chap.'

'I didn't know he was in France.'

'Rather. I thought your brother would have told you.'

'_My brother?_' There was not a vestige of colour in her cheeks. 'What
do you mean?'

Maynard scratched the back of his head. 'Smyth told me,' he said,
wondering at the cause of her agitation, 'that Dick and he enlisted
together some months ago. By Jove! I remember now. He told me that
this American fellow put them up at his rooms in St. James's Square one
night. Smyth didn't know who Dick was until they got to France. He was
travelling under the name of Sherlock, or Shylock, or Sherwood'----

'I--I thought Dick was in China.' She wrung her hands nervously. 'You
didn't see him?'

'No. That's all I know about him, except that he was transferred to some
other battalion than Dinglederry Smyth's.'

She went over to a table and took a piece of notepaper from a drawer.
'Mr. Selwyn used to belong to the R.A.C.,' she said quickly. 'Would you
do me a favour, Horace dear?'

He murmured his desire to be of service in any capacity. Hesitating a
moment, she wrote hurriedly:

'_4th March 1915_, 2lA PARK WALK.

'DEAR MR. SELWYN,--Will you please come and see me as soon as you can? I
am not on night-duty this week.--Yours sincerely, ELISE DURWENT.'

She sealed the envelope and handed it to Maynard. 'Pleas