‘Oh yes, I should like to have a chat.’ The clean-shaven, round-faced manager, a man of suave voice and diplomatic manner, was standing in the passage. His strange life was spent in standing in the passage. He remembered the pair at once, and smiled paternally. ‘Not seen you for some time, sir!’ ‘No, I have been engaged.’ ‘Married,’ said the lady. ‘Dear me!’ said the proprietor. ‘Tea, sir?’ ‘And muffins. You used to like the muffins.’ ‘Oh yes, muffins by all means.’ ‘Number ten,’ said the proprietor, and a waiter showed them upstairs. ‘All meals nine shillings each,’ he whispered, as Frank passed him at the door. He was a new waiter, and so mistook every one for a new customer, which is an error which runs through life. It was a dingy little room with a round table covered by a soiled cloth in the middle. Two windows, discreetly blinded, let in a dim London light. An armchair stood at each side of the empty fireplace, and an uncomfortable, old-fashioned, horsehair sofa lined the opposite wall. There were pink vases upon the mantelpiece, and a portrait of Garibaldi above it. The lady sat down and took off her gloves. Frank stood by the window and smoked a cigarette. The waiter rattled and banged and jingled with the final effect of producing a tea-tray and a hot-water dish. ‘You’ll ring if you want me, sir,’ said he, and shut the door with ostentatious completeness. ‘Now we can talk,’ said Frank, throwing his cigarette into the fireplace. ‘That waiter was getting on my nerves.’ ‘I say, I hope you’re not angry.’ ‘What at?’ ‘Well, my saying I should come down to Woking, and all that.’ ‘I should have been angry if I thought you had meant it.’ ‘Oh, I meant it right enough.’ ‘But with what object?’ ‘Just to get level with you, Frankie, if you threw me over too completely. Hang it all, she has three hundred and sixty-five days in the year! Am I to be grudged a single hour?’ ‘Well, Violet, we won’t quarrel about it. You see I came all right. Pull up your chair and have some tea.’ ‘You haven’t even looked at me yet. I won’t take any tea until you do.’ She stood up in front of him, and pushed up her veil. It was a face and a figure worth looking at. Hazel eyes, dark chestnut hair, a warm flush of pink in her cheeks, the features and outline of an old Grecian goddess, but with more of Juno than of Venus, for she might perhaps err a little upon the side of opulence. There was a challenge and defiance dancing in those dark devil-may-care eyes of hers which might have roused a more cold-blooded man than her companion. Her dress was simple and dark, but admirably cut. She was clever enough to know that a pretty woman should concentrate attention upon herself, and a plain one divert it to her adornments. ‘Well?’ ‘By Jove, Violet, you look splendid.’ ‘Well?’ ‘The muffins are getting cold.’ ‘Frankie, what _is_ the matter with you?’ ‘Nothing is the matter.’ ‘Well?’