I knew that Jack Winston would understand, for he had not been the only one last winter who had written letters.  But Jack was of no importance to me at the instant.  I was talking at Helen, and she, too, would understand.  I hoped that, in understanding, she would suffer a pang, a small, insignificant, poor relation of the pang inflicted upon me.

It is a thing unexplained by science why the miserable hours of our lives should he fifty times the length of happy hours, though stupid clocks, seeing nothing beyond their own hands, record both with the same measurement.  If we had sat at this prettily decorated dinner table in the Carlton restaurant (I had thought it pretty at first, so I give it the benefit of the doubt) through the night into the next day, while other people ate breakfast and even luncheon, the moments could not have dragged more heavily.  But when it appeared that we must have reached a ripe old age—­those of us who had been young with the evening—­Lady Blantock thought we might have coffee in the “palm court.”  We had it, and by rising at last, sweet Molly Winston saved me from doing the musicians a mischief.  “Lord Lane, you promised to let us drop you, in the car,” she said to me.  “Oh, I don’t mean to ’drop you’ literally.  Our auto has no naughty ways.  I hope we are not carrying you off too soon.”

[Illustration:  “We really want you, said Molly".]

Too soon!  I could have kissed her.  “Angel,” I murmured, when we were out of the hotel, for in reality there had been no engagement.  “Thank you—­and good-bye.”  I wrung her hand, and she gave a funny little squeak, for I had forgotten her rings.

“What!  Aren’t you coming?” asked Jack.

“We really want you,” said Molly.  “Please let us take you home with us—­to supper.”

“We’ve just finished dinner,” I objected weakly.

“That makes no difference.  Eating is only an incident of supper.  It’s a meal which consists of conversation.  Look, here’s the car.  Isn’t she a beauty?  Can you resist her?  Such a dear darling of a girl gave her to me, a girl you would love.  Can you resist Mercedes?”

“I could resist anything if I could resist you.  But seriously, though you’re very good, I think I’ll walk to the Albany, and—­and go to bed.”

“What nonsense!  As if you would.  You’re quite a clever actor, Lord Lane, and might deceive a man, but—­I’m a woman.  Jack and I want to talk to you about—­about that walking tour.”

It would have been ungracious to refuse, since she had set her heart upon a rescue.  The chauffeur who had brought round the motor surrendered his place to Molly, whom Jack had taught to drive the new car, and I was given the seat of honour beside her.  By this time the streets were comparatively clear of traffic, and we shot away as if we had been propelled from a catapult, Molly contriving to combine a rippling flow of words with intricate tricks of steering, in an extraordinary fashion which I would defy any male expert to imitate without committing suicide and murder.