opeless." She smiled. "And we're friends. I can't imagine----"

"Nor I. Of course I know it's utterly absurd to come and give people
advice on these subjects, and one can't dispute about tastes and all
that. But my practical mind revolts to see any one so delightful as you
throwing away the substance for the shadow. You see, I'm a mass of
platitudes."

"Shadows are very attractive sometimes."

"But they go away too. And then where are you?"

She was silent.

"They do, really. I know what I'm talking about." He stood up. "Think
over what I've said."

"You're kind, but you're rather depressing, Gillie," said Val. She
looked a little frightened, but very pretty.

"When do you go back to the country?"

"Oh, to-day. We're there now. We only came up for the dance. We're
motoring down to the Green Gate.... All of us."

"Oh yes.... I'm afraid you must think me very impertinent."

"Indeed I don't."

"And when I've gone you will give orders that you're never at home to me
again. But, somehow, I couldn't help it. If it makes you hate me to
remember what I've said, forget it."

She laughed as he rose to go.

"That's all right, Gillie; but what I want to know is, where you're
really going."

"I'll tell you, exactly. I'm going home to lunch, because I've an urgent
appointment immediately afterwards."

"More plays, I suppose? What sort this time?"

"A light comedy, with a very slight love interest," he answered, "all
dialogue, no action.... At least, so far."

"Oh, then it isn't finished yet?"

"Not quite. Good-bye. And if you ever want a change, remember--a
_superior_ man!"

They both laughed insincerely.

He left her looking thoughtfully out of the window.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE BALD-FACED STAG

Vaughan went home, and after lunching, chiefly on a newspaper and a cup
of coffee, he got into a taxicab and gave a direction.

The vehicle flew smoothly along down Park Lane, past the Marble Arch
into the Edgware Road, and on from there between houses and shops,
growing gradually uglier and uglier, to Maida Vale, up Shoot-up Hill,
and so on until there was a glimpse of suburban country, and gasworks,
and glaring posters of melodramas on hoardings, till it stopped suddenly
at a real little old roadside inn, straight out of Dickens--"The
Bald-faced Stag at Edgware." Edgware suggested _John Gilpin_, Gillie's
favourite poem.

Here he got out, and was positively welcomed, and heartily, by a real
roadside i