you all!" she exclaimed bitterly. "I can understand Jimmy, because he likes me to drive him all the time, but you others, who aren't regular clients at all, why you should butt in and try to spoil my chances, I can't think. Mr. Wingate is just my conception of the ideal fare—generous, affable, and with trans-Atlantic notions about tips. I shall send you my card, all the same, Mr. Wingate."
"And I hope," Josephine said, "that Mr. Wingate will not take the slightest notice of all the rubbish these unkind people have been saying. Miss Baldwin drives me continually and has given me every satisfaction."
"'Every satisfaction' I love," Sarah declared. "I shall have that framed."
"Any chance of your taking me back to the Milan?" Wingate enquired.
Sarah shook her head regretfully, glancing down at her muslin gown.
"Can't you see I'm in my party clothes?" she said. "I did bring the old 'bus down here, but I had a boy meet me and take it away. I'll send you my card and telephone number, Mr. Wingate. You can rely upon my punctuality and dispatch. Even my aunt here would give me a reference, if pressed," she added, as their hostess paused for a moment to whisper something in Josephine's ear.
"Your driving's like your life, dear, much too fast for my liking." Lady Amesbury declared. "I hope things are better in your country, Mr. Wingate, but our young people go on anyhow now. Here's my niece drives a taxicab and is proud of it, my own daughter designs underclothes and sells them at a shop in Sloane Street to any one who comes along, and my boy, who ought to go into the Guards, prefers to go into Roger Kendrick's office. What are you going to start him at, Roger?"
"A pound a week and his lunch money, probably," Kendrick replied.
"I don't think he'll earn it," his fond mother said sadly. "However, that's your business. Don't forget you're dining with me Sunday night, John. I'll ask Josephine, too, if you succeed in making friends with her. She's a little difficult, but well worth knowing.—Dear me, I wish people would begin to go! I wonder whether they realise that it is nearly six o'clock."
"I shan't stir a yard," Sarah declared, "until I have had another ice.
Jimmy, run and fetch me one."
"My family would be the last to help me out," Lady Amesbury grumbled. "I'm ashamed of the whole crowd of you round here. Roger, you and Mr. White are disgraceful, sitting and drinking whiskies and sodas and enjoying yourselves, when you ought to have been walking round the gardens being properly bored."
"I came to enjoy myself and I have done so," Kendrick assured her. "To add to my satisfaction, I have met my biggest client—at least he is my biggest client when he feels like doing things."
"Do you feel like doing things now, Mr. Wingate?" Sarah ventured.
Maurice White held out his hands in horror.
"My dear young lady," he exclaimed, "such questions are absolutely impossible! When a man comes on to a market, he comes on secretly. There are plenty of people who would give you a handsome cheque to hear Mr. Wingate's answer to that question."
"Any one may hand over the cheque, then," Wingate interposed smilingly, "because my answer to Miss Baldwin is prompt and truthful. I do not know."
"Of course," Lady Amesbury complained, "if you are going to introduce a commercial element into my party—well, why don't you and Maurice, Roger, go and dance about opposite one another, and tear up bits of paper, and pretend to be selling one another things?—Hooray, I can see some people beginning to move! I'll go and speed them off the premises."
She hurried away. Sarah drew a sigh of relief.
"Somehow or other," she confessed, "I always feel a sense of tranquility when my aunt has just departed."
Josephine rose to her feet.
"I think I shall go," she decided, "while the stock of taxicabs remains unexhausted."
"If you will allow me," Wingate said, "I will find you one."
Their farewells were a little casual. They were all, in a way, intimates.
Only Kendrick touched Wingate on the shoulder.
"Shall I see you in the City to-morrow?" he asked.
"About eleven o'clock," Wingate suggested, "if that is not too early.
There are a few things I want to talk to you about."
"Where shall I send my card?" Sarah called out after him.
"The Milan Hotel," he replied, "with terms, please."
She made a little grimace.
"Terms!" she repeated scornfully. "An American generally pays what he is asked."
"On the contrary," Wingate retorted, "he pays for what he gets."
"Your address?" Wingate asked, as he handed Josephine into a taxicab.
"Dredlinton House, Grosvenor Square," she answered. "You mustn't let me take you out of your way, though."
"Will you humour me?" he asked. "There is something I want to say to you, and I don't want to say it here. May we drive to Albert Gate and walk in the Park a little way? I can find you another taxi the other side."
"I should like that very much," she answered.
They spoke scarcely at all during their brief drive, or during the first part of their walk in the Park. Then he pointed to two chairs under a tree.
"May we sit here?" he begged, leading the way.
She followed, and they sat side by side. He took off his hat and laid it on the ground.
"So one of the dreams of my life has been realised," he said quietly. "I have met Sister Josephine again."
She was for a moment transformed. A delicate pink flush stole through the pallor of her cheeks, her tired eyes were lit with pleasure. She smiled at him.
"I was wondering," she murmured. "You really hadn't forgotten, then?"
"I remember," he told her, "as though it were yesterday, the first time I ever saw you. I was brought into Étaples. It wasn't much of a wound but it was painful. I remember seeing you in that white stone hall, in your cool Sister's dress. After the dust and horror of battle there seemed to be nothing in that wonderful hospital of yours but sunlight and white walls and soft voices. I watched your face as you listened to the details about my case—and I forgot the pain. In the morning you came to see how I was, and most mornings afterwards."
"I am glad that you remember," she murmured.
"I have forgotten nothing," he went on. "I think that those ten days of convalescence out in the gardens of your villa and down by the sea were the most wonderful days I ever spent."
"I love to hear you say so," she confessed.
"Out there," he continued, "the whole show was hideous from beginning to end, a ghastly, terrible drama, played out amongst all the accompaniments which make hell out of earth. And yet the thing gripped. The tragedy of Ypres came and I escaped from the hospital."
"You were not fit to go. They all said that."
"I couldn't help it," he answered. "The guns were there, calling, and one forgot. I've been back to England three times since then, and each time one thought was foremost in my mind—'shall I meet Sister Josephine?'"
"But you never even made enquiries," she reminded him. "At my hospital I made it a strict rule that our names in civil life were never mentioned or divulged, but afterwards you could have found out."
He touched her left hand very lightly, lingered for a moment on her fourth finger.
"It was the ring," he said. "I knew that you were married, and somehow, knowing that, I desired to know no more. I suppose that sounds rather like a cry from Noah's Ark, but I couldn't help it. I just felt like that."
"And now you probably know