How unlike inexpert, tiresome Jack Tosswill!  And yet he also was in dead earnest.  He knew exactly what he wanted, and more than once, in a chaffing, yet serious, fashion, he had assured her that she had best submit at once, as he always “got there in the end.”  What he wanted was that they should be married, by special license, within a week from now, so that they might go back to India, a happy, honeymooning couple, in a fortnight!  And while he was with her, describing in eloquent, eager language what their life would be like and what a delightful, jolly time they would have, Enid had been sorely, sorely tempted to say “yes.”

And yet?  Though Tremaine was Enid Crofton’s ideal of what a lover, even a husband, should be, and she had never liked any man as well, she knew with a painful, practical knowledge the meaning of the words “genteel poverty.”  Tremaine’s regiment would not remain for ever in India, and then would begin the enforced economies, the weary struggle with an inadequate income she had known with Colonel Crofton.  No, no—­it wasn’t good enough!—­or at any rate not good enough as long as there was a hope of anything better.  Even so, it was comfortable to know that Harold Tremaine would still be there, a second string to her bow, in six months’ or a year’s time.

It was of all this that she thought, a little despondently, as she settled herself down in the easy chair close to the little wood fire.  In a few moments her supper would be brought in by her pleasant-faced, rosy-cheeked parlourmaid.  Enid Crofton was dainty and particular as to her food.  The bad cooking she had had to endure during those miserable months she had spent in Essex, after her husband had been demobilised, had proved a very real addition to her other troubles.

She had brought a nice sweetbread with her from London yesterday, and she was now looking forward to having it for her supper.

All at once there came a ring at the front door, and a feeling of keen, angry annoyance shot through her.  Of course it was Jack—­Jack again!  He would ask tiresome, inconvenient questions about the mythical woman friend, the almost sister, for whom she had required the money, and she would have to make up tiresome, inconvenient lies.  Also he would want to kiss her, and she did so want her dinner!

She stood up—­and then the door opened and, instead of Jack, Timmy Tosswill came through it.  For the first time in their acquaintance she was glad to see the boy, though she told herself that of course he had brought her a letter—­another of those odious, reproachful letters from Jack.

“Good evening, Timmy,” she spoke, as she always did speak, pleasantly.  “Have you brought me a message from Rosamund?  I hope she hasn’t thrown me over?  I’m expecting her to lunch to-morrow, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” he said gravely, “and I’ve not brought a message from anyone, Mrs. Crofton.  My coming is a secret.”