"No—not a word!" he said gaily. "I insist,—promise me upon your honour you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!"
"I promise," said Clifford, amazed.
"She is a charming girl,—we had such a delightful chat after you left, and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until I give you permission."
"Oh," murmured Clifford.
"Remember your promise," he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.
Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden.
He felt for his studio key, muttering, "I wonder—I wonder,—but of course he doesn't!"
He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring at the two cards tacked over the panels.
| FOXHALL CLIFFORD |
| RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT |