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That morning she and Alcibiades slept late, the dressing-bell was ringing as she woke.

The cook helped; the Aunt most fortunately had a luncheon engagement with a Tabby in Sidcup. Alcibiades being promised a walk later, consented to wait, trifling with a bone, in silence and the coal cellar. At eleven Judy rewarded his patience. She went out with him, and somehow it seemed wise to put on a pleasant-coloured dress, and one’s best furs and one’s prettiest hat.

“I am afraid I shall see him,” she told herself; “but,” she added, “I am much more afraid that my aunt will see Alcibiades.” On the edge of the Heath she met him. “Here’s the dear dog,” she said. “Oh, can’t you find a stronger chain?”

“I’ll try,” said he. “What a ripping day, isn’t it? Oh, are you going straight back? I wish we’d met anywhere but at a bazaar.”

“So do I,” she said heartfeltly, and caressed the now careless Aberdeen: it was at a bazaar that she had had to sell that angel.

“Mayn’t I walk home with you?” he said. And she could not think of any polite way of saying no, though she knew just how terrible Alcibiades would make the final parting.