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Her husband slid out of bed and picked up her hand.

“I take my hat off,” he said uncertainly.

And, as is so often the way, two days later the pretty pilgrims’ progress came to a violent end.

It was a bleak afternoon, with a sky of concrete and a wind that cut like a lash.

Eve, who had been to the dressmaker’s, was sitting before the fire, reflecting comfortably that in ten days’ time she and Jeremy would be in the South of France.

Her husband entered quickly.

“Sorry I’m late, my darling, but when he’d finished with me he said he was going south, and I was fool enough to offer to drive him down. You know what these artists are. Five-and-twenty minutes he kept me waiting.” He stooped and kissed her. “And—and I’ve a confession to make.”

“Go on,” said Eve, smiling.

“I’ve done it again, Eve.”

“What?”

Jeremy stepped to the fire.

“Got stopped in the Park.”

“Jeremy!”

“I’m awfully sorry, dear. It’s a kind of disease with me.”

“But you gave me your word——”

“I know. I’m frightfully sorry. I wasn’t thinking about speed. As a matter of fact, I was talking to Hudibras. And then, just as I was going to switch out of Clarence Gate, they pulled me up. Perfectly ridiculous, of course. The road was clear.”