It was by the merest chance that at a certain moment when she looked over the top of the scales and arpeggios he also looked up from his _Daily Telegraph_. Their eyes met. Catherine blushed, but it was not visible behind her music. He just stared. If they had both been quick enough they might have looked away and let the crisis pass. Unfortunately each second as it passed made them regard each other more unflinchingly. The train ground round the curve into Bethnal Green Station. Catherine was waiting for him to say something. At last the pause was becoming so tense that she had to break it. She said the very first thing that entered her head. It was: “Hullo!” Then ensued the following conversation. “Good-morning, Catherine ... going up to the City, I suppose?” “Yes. Are you?” “Yes. I’m going to see some friends at Ealing. Bus from Liverpool Street.” “Oh, I go by tube to Oxford Circus. I’m seeing if they’ve got some music I ordered.” “Don’t suppose they’ll have it ... very slack, these big London firms....” Pause. “Getting on all right?” “Oh, fine, thanks.” “I heard you’d got a place at the Royal Cinema.” “Oh, I soon left that ... I’m on at the Victoria Theatre now. Much better job.” “Good ... like the work, I suppose?” “Rather!” Pause. “Nasty weather we’re having.” “Yes--for April.” Pause again. At Liverpool Street they were the first to leave the compartment. “You’ll excuse my rushing off,” she said, “but I must be quick. The shop closes at one on a Saturday.” “Certainly,” he murmured. Then he offered his hand. She took it and said “Good-bye” charmingly. A minute later and she was leaning up against the wall of the tube subway in a state bordering upon physical exhaustion. The interview had been so unlike anything she had in her wildest dreams anticipated. Its casualness, its sheer uneventfulness almost took away her breath. She had pictured him pleading, expostulating, remonstrating, blustering, perhaps making a scene. She had been prepared for agonized entreaties, tearful supplications. Instead of which he had said: “Nasty weather we’re having.” And she had replied: “Yes--for April.” As for the ideal dialogue---- § 3 There was another surprise in store for Catherine. In the front row of the stalls at the Bockley Victoria Theatre she saw George Trant. She was only a few feet away from him in the orchestra, and it was inevitable that he should notice her. Now if Catherine had been asked if she would ever have anything to do with George Trant again, she would have said “No” very decisively. She had made up her mind about that long ago. If he ever spoke to her she had decided to snub him unmercifully. But George Trant stood up and waved to her. “I say, Cathie!” he said. And Catherine looked up and said, quite naturally, “Hullo, George.”