“I haven’t thought that out yet.”

“But you must.”

“I know.  You see, if I say I am married, naturally she will ask me a few questions.”

“When she gets—­gets her breath!” Marjorie said with a laugh; it was the first time she had laughed, and he liked to hear it.

“The first will probably be, How long have I been married?”

“Do you remember you used to come to Marlbury to see me when I was at school at Miss Skinner’s?”

“Rather!”

“That was three years ago.  Supposing you married about then?”

“Fine,” Hugh said.  “I married three years ago.  What month?”

“June,” she said; “it’s a lovely month!”

“I was married in June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, my lady,” said Hugh.  “Where at, though?”

“Why, Marlbury, of course!”

“Of course!  Splendid place to get married in, delightful romantic old town!”

“It is a hateful place, but that doesn’t matter,” said Marjorie.  She seemed to snuggle up a little closer to him, her lips were rippling with smiles, her bright eyes saw freedom and love, her heart was very warm with gratitude to this man who was helping her.  But she could not guess, how could she, how in spite of the laughter on his lips there was a great ache and a feeling of emptiness at his heart.

“So now we have it all complete,” he said.  “I was married in June, nineteen eighteen at Marlbury; my wife and I did not get on, we parted.  She had a temper, so had I, a most unhappy affair, and there you are!” He laughed.

“All save one thing,” Marjorie said.

“Goodness, what have I forgotten?”

“Only the lady’s name.”

“You are right.  She must have a name of course, something nice and romantic—­Gladys something, eh?”

Marjorie shook her head.

“Clementine,” suggested Hugh.  “No, won’t do, eh?  Now you put your thinking cap on and invent a name, something romantic and pretty.  Let’s hear from you, Marjorie.”

“Do you like—­Joan Meredyth?” she said.

“Splendid!  What a clever little brain!” He shut his eyes.  “I married Miss Joan Meredyth on the first of June, or was it the second, in the year nineteen hundred and eighteen?  We lived a cat-and-dog existence, and parted with mutual recriminations, since when I have not seen her!  Marjorie, do you think she will swallow it?”

“If you tell her; but, Hugh, will you—­will you?”

“Little girl, is it going to help you?”

“You know it is!” she whispered.

“Then I shall tell her!”

Marjorie lifted a pair of soft arms and put them about his neck.

“Hugh!” she said, “Hugh, if—­if I had never known Tom, I—­”

“I know,” he said.  “I know.  God bless you.”  He stooped and kissed her on the cheek, and rose.

It was a mad thing this that he was to do, yet he never considered its madness, its folly.  It would help her, and Hurst Dormer would never know its golden-haired mistress, after all.