To press the little black button at the door of his aunt’s handsome west-end flat was the biggest thing Macgregor had ever done. As a small boy he had feared his Aunt Purdie, as a schoolboy he had hated her, as a youth he had despised her; his feelings towards her now were not to be described, but it is certain that they included a well-nigh overpowering sense of dread; indeed, the faint thrill of the electric bell sent him back a pace towards the stair. His state of perspiration gave place to one of miserable chillness. A supercilious servant eyed his obviously “good” clothes and bade him wait. Nevertheless, a sting was what Macgregor needed just then; it roused the fighting spirit. When the servant returned, and in an aloof fashion――as though, after all, it was none of her business――suggested that he might enter, he was able to follow her across the hall, with its thick rugs and pleasantly warm atmosphere, to the drawing-room, without faltering. Less than might have been expected the grandeur of his surroundings impressed――or depressed――him, for in the course of his trade he had grown familiar with the houses of the rich. But he had enough to face in the picture without looking at the frame. Mrs. Purdie was seated at the side of the glowing hearth, apparently absorbed in the perusal of a charitable society’s printed list of donations. “Your nephew, ma’am,” the servant respectfully announced and retired. Mrs. Purdie rose in a manner intended to be languid. Macgregor had not seen the large yet angular figure for two years. With his hat in his left hand he went forward holding out his right. A stiff, brief handshake followed. “Well, Macgregor, this is quite an unexpected pleasure,” she said, unsmiling, resuming her seat. “Take a chair. It is a considerable period since I observed you last.” Time could not wither the flowers of language for Mrs. Purdie. “You are getting quite a big boy. How old are you now? Are your parents in good health?” She did not wait for answers to these inquiries. “I am sorry your uncle is not at home. His commercial pursuits confine him to his new and commodious premises even on Saturday afternoons.” (At that moment Mr. Purdie was smoking a pipe in the homely parlour of Christina’s uncle, awaiting his old friend’s return from the theatre.) “His finance is exceedingly high at present.” With a faint smack of her lips she paused, and cast an inquiring glance at her visitor. Macgregor saw the ice, so to speak, before him. The time had come. But he did not go tapping round the edge. Gathering himself together, he leaped blindly. In a few ill-chosen words he blurted out his petition. Then there fell an awful silence. And then――he could hardly believe his own ears!