"I insisted," replied Bridget, "that you were not to come without your sister!" "Oh dear, no," he exclaimed. "It's quite true you said I might come with her, but you will see on reflection that is a different matter." "The fact is," said Bridget, "Miss Clynesworth is determined not to show me the light of her countenance." "I am fairly certain that is a mistake," returned Jimmy. "I am convinced she will come, but not at present." "Why not?" He shrugged his shoulders and told himself that women were sometimes rather severe on one another. Wandering about the room, Jimmy looked at one or two of the oleographs on the light-papered walls, and presently his eyes rested on the hanging bookshelf. "You have a collection of your father's novels!" he suggested. "Have you read any of them?" she asked, with obviously quickened interest. "Yes, several," was the answer. He took one down from the slide. "I was introduced to Mr. Rosser by old Faversham at Crowborough," he continued. "I wish to goodness I had seen you at the same time! Besides," continued Jimmy, as he turned the pages while Bridget stood looking over his shoulder, "I met him once afterwards. That was at the Garrick. I was dining there one evening, and he joined the party. I remember perfectly well that he was the life and soul of it. His books were always a delight to me, if only for their style." Jimmy put back the volume he had been examining and took down another, continuing to discuss its contents for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. "Miss Rosser!" he cried suddenly, "I am the most arrant humbug!" "Aren't you really interested in the books?" she asked. "Yes, but, you know, life is more than letters. Not so much in the books as in you. Although I am going to ask you to let me take one of them home, and I shall enjoy reading it, my actual object is to find an excuse for coming again." "Which will you take?" she asked. "This looks promising," said Jimmy, selecting a grey-covered volume. "It is about an ill-assorted marriage," she explained. "Oh well, the majority of modern novels are." "Certainly the majority of my father's," she said. "And yet his own marriage was such a perfect success." "Obviously!" answered Jimmy, turning to face her. "You have heard----" "Not at all. The happy country has no history, you know. I merely judge by the result." Her eyes fell under his gaze, and he saw the colour slowly mantle her face and neck. "Oh, why do you flatter me?" she murmured. "Don't you like flattery?" Now she raised her eyes again, meeting his own. "Oh, I love it," she admitted. "But there are so very many undesirable things I adore." "I wish I might become one of them!" "Do you fulfil the condition of undesirability?" asked Bridget.