Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. She was listed for the raid—she was informed it was to be a raid upon the House of Commons, though no particulars were given her—and told to go alone to 14, Dexter Street, Westminster, and not to ask any policeman to direct her. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table. He could hardly open the envelope, he trembled so. "Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. Men usually do. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time.
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