it was nearly twelve months before he heard again from miss tarrant. then one day she wrote and asked him to come and have tea with her at her flat in lexham gardens.

he went. his entrance coincided with the departure of laurence furnival and a lady whom philippa introduced to him as mrs. laurence, whom, she said, he would remember under another name.

furnival's wife was younger than ever and more like nora viveash and more different. when the door closed on them philippa turned to him with her radiance (the least bit overdone).

"i made that marriage," she said, and staggered him.

"surely," he said, "it was made in heaven."

"if this room is heaven. it was made here, six months ago."

she faced him with all his memories. with all his memories and her own she faced him radiantly.

"you know now," she said, "why i did it. it was worth while, wasn't it?"

his voice struggled with his memories and stuck. it stuck in his throat.

before he left he begged her congratulations on a little affair of his own; a rather unhappy affair which had ended happily the week before last. he did not tell her that, if it hadn't been for the things dear fanny brocklebank had done for him, the way she had mixed herself up with his unhappy little affair, it might have ended happily a year ago.

"but," said philippa, "how beautiful!"

he never saw miss tarrant again. their correspondence ceased after his marriage, and he gathered that she had no longer any use for him.