“Right, sir.”

Bill seized his hat and departed.

Ten minutes later, a taxi deposited him at 487, Pont Street. He rang the bell and executed a loud rat-tat on the knocker. The door was opened by a grave functionary to whom Bill nodded with the ease of long acquaintance.

“Morning, Chilvers, Mrs. Revel in?”

“I believe, sir, that she is just going out.”

“Is that you, Bill?” called a voice over the banisters. “I thought I recognized that muscular knock. Come up and talk to me.”

Bill looked up at the face that was laughing down on him, and which was always inclined to reduce him⁠—and not him alone⁠—to a state of babbling incoherency. He took the stairs two at a time and clasped Virginia Revel’s outstretched hands tightly in his.