Returned to London and Fig Tree Court—­which he was soon vacating—­David obtained through his and her bankers a passport for himself and another for Miss Vivien Warren, thirty-four, British subject, and so forth, travelling on the Continent, a lady of independent means.  He re-arranged all David’s and Vivie’s money matters, stored such of Vivie’s property and his own as was indispensable at Honoria Armstrong’s house in Kensington, and left a box containing a complete man’s outfit in charge of Bertie Adams; bade farewell as “David Williams” and “Uncle David” to Honoria and her two babies, and to the still unkindly-looking Colonel Armstrong (who very much resented the “uncle” business, which was perhaps why Honoria out of a wholesome taquinage kept it up); and called in for a farewell chat with dear old Praddy—­beginning to look a bit shaky and rather too much bossed by his parlour-maid.  Honoria had said as he departed “Do try to run up against Vivie somewhere abroad and tell her I shan’t be happy till she returns and takes up her abode among us once more.  ‘Army’ is longing to know her.” (’Army’ didn’t look it.) “Now pettums!  Wave handikins to Uncle David.  He’s goin’ broadies.  ‘Army’ dear, would you ask them to whistle for a taxi?  I know David doesn’t want to walk all the way back to the Temple in those lovely button boots.”

Praed told him all he wanted to know about the localities of the Warren Private Hotels; most of all, that at which Vivie’s mother resided in the Rue Royale, Brussels.

So at this establishment a well but plainly dressed English lady, scarcely looking her age (thirty-four) turned up one morning, and sent in a card to the lady-proprietress, Mme. Varennes.  This card was closely scanned by a heavy-featured Flemish girl who took it upstairs to an appartement on the first floor.  She read: 

          Miss Vivien Warren

and vaguely noted the resemblance of the two names Varennes and Warren, and the fact that the establishment in which she earned a lucrative wage was one of the “Warren” Hotels.

With very short delay, Vivie was invited to ascend in a lift to the first floor and was shown in to a gorgeously furnished bedroom which, through an open door, gave a glimpse of an attractive boudoir or sitting-room beyond, and beyond that again the plane trees of a great boulevard breaking into delicate green leaf.  A woman of painted middle age in a descente de lit that in its opulence matched the hangings and furniture of the room, had been reclining on a sofa, drinking chocolate and reading a newspaper.  She rose shakily to her feet, when the door closed behind Vivie, tottered forward to meet her, and exclaimed rather theatrically “My daughter ... come back to me ... after all these years!” (a few tears ran down the rouged cheeks).