"I
am hoping you will be comfortable here, miss," the woman said to her.
"You must ask for anything you want."

She did not smile, but her tone was respectful, and she looked at Cicely
with eyes not unfriendly. And, after all, the rooms were clean--for
London.

Mackenzie took her to a big shop in Holborn and stayed outside while she
made her purchases. She had not dared to bring with her even a small
hand-bag, and she had to buy paper on which to write her letter to her
mother.

"I lived in Mrs. Fletcher's rooms before I went to Tibet," Mackenzie
said as they went back to the house. "I tried to get them when I came
back--but no such luck. Fortunately they fell vacant on Saturday. We'll
keep them on for a bit after we're married. Must make ourselves
comfortable, you know."

She stole a glance at him. His face was beaming. She had thought he had
taken her to that dingy, unknown quarter as a temporary precaution.
Would he really expect her to make her home in such a place?

She wrote her letter to her mother at the table in the sitting-room.
Mrs. Fletcher had brought up a penny bottle of ink and a pen with a J
nib suffering from age. Mackenzie walked about the room as she wrote,
and it was difficult for her to collect her thoughts. She gave him the
note to read, with a pretty gesture of confidence. It was very short.

"My own darling Mother,--I have not come to London to see Muriel,
but to marry Ronald Mackenzie. I said what I did in my telegram
because of the post-office. I am very happy, and will write you a
long letter directly we are married.--Always your very loving
daughter,

"Cicely."

"Brave girl!" he said as he returned it to her.

She gave a little sob. "I wish I had not had to go away from her like
that," she said.

"Don't cry, little girl," he said kindly. "It was the only way."

She dried her eyes and sealed up the note. She had wondered more than
once since he had carried her off her feet why it was the only way.

They carried through the business of the letter and the telegram and
drove to a little French restaurant in Soho to dine. The upstairs room
was full of men and a few women, some French, more English. Everybody
stared at her as she entered, and she blushed hotly. And some of them
recognised Mackenzie and whispered his name. The men were mostly
journalists, of the more literary sort, one or two of them men of note,
if she had known it. But to her they look