Praed:  “Well, I haven’t dropped you. I’ll always stick by you” (observes that Vivie is trying to keep back her tears).  “Vivie—­darling—­what do you want me to do?  Why not marry me and spend half my income, take the shelter of my name—­I’m an A.R.A. now—­You needn’t do more than keep house for me....  I’m rather a valetudinarian—­dare say I shan’t trouble you long—­we could have a jolly good time before I went off with a heart attack—­travel—­study—­write books together—­”

Vivie (recovering herself):  “Thanks, dear Praddy; you are a brick and I really—­in a way—­have quite got to love you.  Except an office boy in Chancery Lane and W.T.  Stead, I don’t know any other decent man.  But I’m not going to marry any one.  I’m going to become Vavasour Williams—­the name is rotten, but you must take what you can get.  Williams is a quiet young man who only desires to be left alone to earn his living respectably at the Bar, and see there if he cannot redress the balance in the favour of women.  But there is something you could do for me, and it is for that I came to see you to-day—­by the bye, we have both let our tea grow cold, but for goodness’ sake don’t order any more on my account, or else your parlour-maid will be coming in and out and will see that I’ve been crying and you look flushed.  What I wanted to ask was this—­it’s really very simple—­If Mr. Vavasour Williams, aged twenty-four, late in South Africa, once your pupil in architecture or scene painting or whatever it was—­gives you as a reference to character, you are to say the best you can of him.  And, by the bye, he will be calling to see you very shortly and you could lend further verisimilitude to your story by renewing acquaintance with him.  You will find him very much improved.  In every way he will do you credit.  And what is more, if you don’t repel him, he will come and see you much oftener than his cousin—­I’m not ashamed to adopt her as a cousin—­Vivie Warren could have done.  Because Vivie, with her deplorable parentage, had your good name to think of, and visited you very seldom; whereas there could be raised no objection from your parlour-maid if Mr. D.V.  Williams came rather often to chat with you and ask your advice.  Think it over, dear friend—­Good-bye.”

Early in July, Norie and Vivie were standing at the open west window in their partners’ room at the office, trying to get a little fresh air.  The staff had just gone its several ways to the suburbs, glad to have three hours of daylight before it for cricket and tennis.  Confident therefore of not being overheard, Vivie began:  “I’ve got those rooms in Fig Tree Court.  I shall soon be ready to move my things in.  I’ll leave some of poor Vivie Warren’s effects behind if you don’t mind, in case she comes back some day.  Do you think you can rub along if I take my departure next week?  I want to give myself a fortnight’s bicycle holiday in Wales—­as D.V.  Williams—­a kind of honeymoon with Fate, before I settle down as a law student.  After I come back I can devote much of the summer recess to our affairs, either openly or after office hours.  You could then take a holiday, in August.  You badly need one.  What about Beryl?”