“I want you all to notice carefully,” he said. “Here I have a jar of clean pure water. The little fellow who is gambolling about so playfully inside it is a stickleback. He is having a fine time because the water is so pure and fresh.... Now watch ... here I have a flask of whisky.... I pour it into the water ... so.... I want you to watch very carefully....” Freddie McKellar, aged fifteen, bent his head slightly to the left in order to see round the corner of Mrs. Mole’s hat. In doing so he felt the soft spray-like touch of Catherine’s hair against his ear.... It was not unpleasant. Catherine was dreamily conscious that something tense was going to happen. “It doesn’t always work,” she whispered, vaguely, “some sticklebacks like it.” ... She bent her head slightly to the right to circumvent the obstruction of Mr. Mole’s shiny hairless head. To Freddie McKellar it seemed that this time, instead of his ear touching her hair, her hair had performed the more positive act of brushing against his ear. The difference, though subtle, was not to be ignored. “Now,” cried Mr. Weston, brandishing aloft his jar with the stickleback inside it either dead or drunk or in some way incapacitated for further movement, “if the effect of this foul spirit upon this tiny animal is ...” “There’s refreshments afterwards, ain’t there?” said Freddie, _sotto voce_. “Yes,” she whispered, hoarsely. The tragedy of the dying stickleback, “butchered to make a Roman holiday,” had made her unwontedly solemn. ... “Now,” proceeded Mr. Weston, “if somebody will kindly lower the lights, I will show you on the screen some of the effects of strong drink.... First of all, perhaps you would care to have a look at a drop of whisky as it is seen through the lens of a microscope....” The lights went out in successive “pops.” Freddie McKellar’s left hand slowly closed over Catherine’s right one. “Ugh,” said Catherine, presumably at the horrible picture on the screen. Then the thought came to her (she had had no experience of such matters)--“He must be flirting with me.” Simultaneously there came to Freddie McKellar (who, for his age, had had considerable experience of such matters) the thought: “She must be flirting with me.” And at the same time Gladys Stockwell nudged Bessie Millar and whispered: “Just look at Cathie Weston and Freddie McKellar ... at their age, too....” (Gladys was twenty-three and unbeautiful.) In the refreshment room afterwards Catherine and Freddie sat together on a bench munching ham-sandwiches. You were only expected to take one ham-sandwich, but Catherine had already taken three and Freddie five. The caretaker was stoking up the fire at the other side of the room. “Ain’t you two goin’ ter join in the Musical Chairs?” he remarked, contemplatively, “they’ve started ’em in the other room.” Freddie took another ham-sandwich. “I don’t feel extra like Musical Chairs,” he replied.