She had gone to sleep on the name of Beaumaroy; on it she awoke.  It came from Captain Alec’s lips.  He was standing on the hearthrug with his arm round Cynthia’s waist, and his other hand raising one of hers to his lips.  He looked admirably handsome—­strong, protecting, devoted.  And Cynthia, in her fragile appealing prettiness, was a delicious foil, a perfect complement to the picture.  But now, under stress of emotion—­small blame to a man who was making a vow of eternal fidelity!—­under stress of emotion, as, on a previous occasion, under that of indignation, the Captain had raised his voice!

“Yes, against all the scoundrels in the world, whether they’re called Cranster or Beaumaroy!” he said.

Mary’s eyes opened.  She sat up.  “Cranster and Beaumaroy?” They were the words which her ears had caught.  “What in the world has Mr. Beaumaroy to do with—­” But she broke off, as she saw the couple by the fire.  “But what are you two doing?”

Cynthia broke away from her lover, and ran to her friend with joyous avowals.

“I must have been sound asleep,” cried Mary, kissing her.  Alec had followed across the room and now stood close by her.  She looked up at him.  “Oh, I see!  She’s to be safe now from such people?” On this particular occasion Mary’s look at the Captain was not admiring; it was a little scornful.

“That’s the idea,” agreed the happy Alec.  “Another idea is that I trot you both over in the car to Old Place—­to break the news and have dinner.”

“Splendid!” cried Cynthia.  “Do come, Mary!”

Mary shook her head.  “No; you go, you two,” she said.  “I’m tired, and I want to think.”  She passed her hand across her eyes.  She seemed to wipe away the mists of sleep.  Her face suddenly grew animated and exultant.  “No, I don’t want to think!  I know!” she exclaimed emphatically.

“Mary dear, are you still asleep?  Are you talking in your sleep?”

“The keyword!  It came to me, somehow, in my sleep.  The keyword—­Morocco!”

“What the deuce has Morocco—­” Captain Alec began, with justifiable impatience.

“Ah, you never heard that, and, dear Captain Alec, you wouldn’t have understood it if you had.  You thought he was reciting poems.  What he was really doing—­”

“Look here, Doctor Mary, I’ve just been accepted by Cynthia, and I’m going to take her to my mother and father.  Can you get your mind on to that?” He looked at her curiously, not at all understanding her excitement, perhaps resenting the obvious fact that his Cynthia’s happiness was not foremost in her friend’s mind.

With a great effort Mary brought herself down to the earth—­to the earth of romantic love from the heaven of professional triumph.  True, the latter was hers, the former somebody else’s.  “I do beg your pardon.  I do indeed.  And do let me kiss you again, Cynthia darling—­and you, dear Captain Alec, just once!  And then you shall go off to dinner.”  She laughed excitedly.  “Yes, I’m going to push you out.”