thy.

"Suburbs probably," she replied practically. "These old wasters take
you out to dinner; but marry you--not much." She shook her wise little
head so vigorously that her bobbed hair shook like a fringe. "I wish I
had a John Dene," she said after a pause.

"A John Dene!"

"Ummm!" nodded Marjorie.

"Why?"

"Marry him, of course."

"Don't be absurd."

Suddenly Marjorie slipped off the table and, going over to Dorothy,
threw her arms round her impulsively.

"I'm so sorry, Dollikins," she cried, snuggling up against her.

"Sorry for what?" asked Dorothy in a weak voice.

"That he got lost. I--I _know_," she added.

"Know what?" asked Dorothy, her voice still weaker.

"That you're keen on him."

"I'm not," Dorothy sniffed. "I'm not, so there." Again she sniffed,
and Marjorie with the wisdom of her sex was silent, wondering how long
she would be able to stand the tickling of Dorothy's tears as they
coursed down her cheeks.

At the end of a fortnight Sir Lyster Grayne decided to close John
Dene's offices, and Dorothy returned to the Admiralty, resuming her
former position; but, thanks to Sir Bridgman North's intervention, her
salary remained the same as before John Dene's disappearance.

All the girls were greatly interested in what they called "John Dene's
vanishing trick." Dorothy became weary of answering their questions
and parrying their not ill-natured impertinences. Sometimes she felt
she must scream.

Everybody she encountered seemed to think it necessary to refer to the
very subject she would have wished left unmentioned.

One day she had encountered Sir Bridgman North in one of the corridors.
Recognising her, he had stopped to enquire if she were still receiving
her full salary. Then with a cheery "I don't want to be gingered-up
when the good John Dene returns," he had passed on with a smile and a
salute.

At home it was the same. A pall of depression seemed to have descended
upon the little flat. Mrs. West tactfully refrained from asking
questions; but Dorothy was conscious that John Dene was never very far
from her thoughts.

Their week-end excursions had lost their savour, and they both
recognised how much John Dene had become part of their lives.

Sometimes when Dorothy was in bed, tears would refuse to be forced
back, however hard she strove against them. Then she would become
angry with herself, jump out of bed, dab her eyes with a wet towel, and
return to bed and star