“Oh yes,” she responded eagerly, “so am I--awfully glad!” “Because I want to have a word about Tom.” “Oh--_Tom_,” with inexpressible scorn, “I’ve just about done with Tom!” “Done for him, you mean! You’re breaking his heart; he’s a topping good chap, I know, for I live in the house with him.” Here, indeed, was a bitter disappointment for Miss Dilly. So the smart chauffeur was merely talking to her as a friend of Tom’s! “I say,” he continued, “do you think it’s playing the game to be carrying on with this other chap, if you are engaged to Tom?” “Who says so?” she demanded sharply. “He does--Ottinge does.” “Laws! A lot of jangling old women! Much I care what they say!” and she tossed her head violently. “You need not tell me that.” “Why?” she snapped. “Because you meet a young man you are not engaged to, and walk miles with him through the lanes after sundown.” “Well, I’m sure! Why mayn’t I have a friend if I choose?” “It is entirely a matter of opinion; if I were in Tom’s shoes, Miss Dilly, and knew of this evening’s outing, I’d give you the chuck at once, and have nothing more to do with you.” “Oh--_you_!”--insolently--“they say you’re a sort of half gentleman as has got into some trouble. Why don’t you mind your own affairs? Come now!” “Tom is my friend and my affair.” “Bah! a working man and a gentleman--friends! Go on!” and she stared at him defiantly. “Yes, he is; and I won’t stand by and see his life spoiled, if I can help it.” “Well, then,” and she burst into sudden tears, “it’s his mother as is spoiling it--not me.” “How do you make that out?” “Wasn’t we pledged four year ago, and I took his ring, and there’s Maggie Tuke engaged years after me, and nicely set up in her own house now, with a gramaphone and a big glass--yes, and Nellie Watkin too; and I’ve got to wait and wait till Mrs. Hogben pleases. _She_ won’t give up Tom, so there it is! Oh, of course she’s all butter and sugar to a good lodger like you, but she’s as hard as a turnpike, and she’s waiting on till my grandmother comes forward--and that she’ll never do. Why, she grudges me a bit of chocolate, let alone a fortin’.” “Oh, so that’s it, is it?” “Yes, that’s it, since you must know; and I tell you I’m not going on playing this ’ere waiting game no longer--I’m about fed up, as they say; I’m twenty-six, and I’ve told Ernest as I’m going to break it off with Hogben.” “Come now, which do you like the best?” asked Wynyard, amazed at his own impertinence, “Tom or Ernest?” “Why, Tom, of course, but what’s the good?” “Look here, will you promise not to hate me--and will you let me see what I can do?” For a moment she gazed at him with an air of profound mistrust; at last she muttered in a peevish voice-- “Yes, you can’t make things no worse, anyway--and that’s certain sure.”