He was observing the feminine details the untidinesses so characteristic of her; the daintinesses, equally characteristic--all in such odd contrast with inevitable bush roughnesses.

He noticed the silver and ivory on the dressing-table; the large silver-framed photographs--an autographed one of the Queen of Wartenburg--Molly Gaverick and Rosamond Tallant in Court veil and feathers, Joan Gildea at her type-writer--the confusion of books, the embroidered coverlet on the large bed, the bush-made couch at its foot upholstered in rose-patterned chintz on which she had seated herself.
'You have GOT to go,' she urged.

'WHATEVER happens, you are leaving here with the mailman to-morrow....

Promise--on your word of honour--that NOTHING shall hinder you.' 'Of course, I shall keep my promise, though it breaks my heart to leave you like this.

But I know--I feel that the parting will not be for long....