“The idea,” said Cook reproachfully; “the idea, m’lady, of calling it botherin’ us.” The others murmured polite sympathy with Cook’s view, but when Lady Frances had played the four figures in a manner that seemed to Erb quite without flaw, she said good-night, giving a special word to Louisa that made the short girl redden with delight; coming back to the doorway after Cook had seen her out to say to Erb: “Won’t forget your promise, will you?” The dance finished at half-past eleven, and the yawning pianiste went off to another engagement in Eccleston Street that began at midnight and was to last until the hour of four. The servants came up the steps of the area to see their visitors go, Alice now so proud of her brother that she declined to acknowledge the compliments of Mr. Danks, ignoring that gentleman’s fervent assurance that she had been, as he expressed it, the belle of the evening. “Good-bye, Mr. Barnes,” said Miss Luker fervently. She walked on a few steps with him. “This evening will always, always remain in my mind as a precious memory.” “_I_ shan’t forget it in a hurry.” “Oh, thank you for those words,” whispered Miss Luker. “Don’t mention it.” “But promise. You won’t think harshly of me, will you?” “As a matter of fact, I don’t suppose I shall ’ave time to think of you at all, ’arshly or otherwise. To-morrow night there’s an important meeting on, and—” “But if you should want to write to me,” went on Miss Luker, undeterred and looking back at the gossiping bunch of visitors near the area entrance, “let me know and I’ll send you some addressed envelopes. We live in a censorious world, Mr. Barnes, and— Here comes your young sister. Think of me at four o’clock every afternoon, and I’ll promise to think of you.” “Well, but,” protested Erb, “what’s the use?” “Bah!” said Miss Luker, with a sudden burst of undisguised contempt, “I wouldn’t be a dunderheaded man for anything.” CHAPTER IV THE third round of deliveries was finished, and, arrived at his last evening, Erb, coat and collar off, washed away the traces of work in the stable pail with the aid of some aggressive soft soap that seemed to have its own way in everything. He had brought with him that morning a parcel of private clothes, and just before going out with the six o’clock turn, he had changed, and had handed in the corduroy uniform. A relief to feel that he no longer wore the brass buttons of servitude; of late they had seemed to reproach him. He had driven round the Surrey side with the air of a sporting gentleman taking out his own horse and trap; the private clothes helped him to say his good-byes with dignity to all, and especially to his old enemy, the van foreman. “You _would_ go on in your own tin-pot way,” said the van foreman regretfully, “no matter what I said. Your case ought to act as a warnin’.” “To _you_?”