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Tony stood in Alison’s drawing-room, waiting for her to come down. He had childishly sent up a fictitious name to her, for he wanted to give her a surprise, and if he had given no name at all she might have suspected who it was. They had not met for more than six years and he wondered if she had changed much. The last photograph looked just the same, but that was taken three years ago—and there was Small Alison to meet too. He was rather frightened of her, and he never could remember how old she was. Four or five, anyway—out of the squalling stage, thank Heaven!

He had not written to Alison since he got back from Africa, and she would have been wondering about his silence, though it was not such a very long one. She was being long enough! But then she thought it was—someone else. Tony smiled rather tenderly. It was a pleasant and unaccustomed feeling for him to be as absolutely sure of his welcome as he was here.

There was a rustle on the stairs and then he heard her pause for the fraction of a second at the door. The next moment he was holding her tightly. He never quite knew afterwards if he had kissed her or not.

“Tony! Oh, Tony-boy! Let me look at you. You’re a man! When did you come back? Why didn’t you tell me? Was this why you didn’t write, you bad boy? You don’t know how you worried me. I thought you might be ill. (Let me look at you again.) Winthrop said I was a