“At last!” she cried softly; “at last!” And for a second or two we all three stood there just gripping each other’s hands and not saying a word.  It certainly was rather a good feeling.

Tommy was the first to break the silence.  “Damn it,” he said huskily, “if Neil didn’t look so exactly like a brigand chief I believe I should blubber.  Eh, Joyce—­how do you feel?”

“I feel all right,” said Joyce.  “And he doesn’t look a bit like a brigand chief.  He looks splendid.”  She stood back and surveyed me with a sort of tender proprietorship.

“I suppose we shall get used to it,” remarked Tommy.  “It nearly gave me heart disease to begin with.”  Then, going and locking the side door, he added cheerfully, “I vote we have supper at once.  I’ve had nothing except whisky since I came off the boat.”

“Well, there’s heaps to eat,” said Joyce.  “I’ve been out marketing in the King’s Road.”

“What have you got?” demanded Tommy hungrily.

Joyce ticked them off with her fingers.  “There’s a cold chicken and salad, some stuffed olives—­those are for you, Neil, you always used to like them—­a piece of Stilton cheese and a couple of bottles of champagne.  They’re all in the kitchen, so come along both of you and help me get them.”

“Where’s the faithful Clara?” asked Tommy.

“I’ve sent her out for the evening.  I didn’t want any one to be here except just us three.”

We all trooped into Joyce’s tiny kitchen and proceeded to carry back our supper into the studio, where we set it out on the table in the centre.  We were so ridiculously happy that for some little time our conversation was inclined to be a trifle incoherent:  indeed, it was not until we had settled down round the table and Tommy had knocked the head off the first bottle of champagne with the back of his knife that we in any way got back to our real environment.

It was Joyce who brought about the change.  “I keep on feeling I shall wake up in a minute,” she said, “and find out that it’s all a dream.”

“Put it off as long as possible,” said Tommy gravely.  “It would be rotten for Neil to find himself back in Dartmoor before he’d finished his champagne.”

“I don’t know when I shall get any more as it is,” I said.  “I’ve got to start work the day after tomorrow.”

There was a short pause:  Joyce pushed away her plate and leaned forward, her eyes fixed on mine; while Tommy stretched out his arm and filled up my glass.

“Go on,” he said.  “What’s happened?”

In as few words as possible I told them about my interview with Sonia, and showed them the letter which she had brought me from McMurtrie.  They both read it—­Joyce first and then Tommy, the latter tossing it back with a grunt that was more eloquent than any possible comment.

“It’s too polite,” he said.  “It’s too damn’ polite altogether.  You can see they’re up to some mischief.”