“I say, don’t wake Mother,” he warned her. Hastily she dropped an octave. “So I think you might tell me what’s the matter,” she concluded. “Oh rot, Laura,” said Justin uncomfortably. “What should be the matter?” He waited a moment for her answer; but she said nothing: was waiting in her turn. He looked at his book. If he once began reading again.... “I don’t know,” she said hastily, “but there is. You might tell me, Justin.” She put her hand upon his open book, would not budge as he tried politely to move it. “You’ve got to tell me,” she insisted. It was a very young and ignorant thing to do, crudely provocative if it had not been so utterly unconscious. A woman or an older man would have laughed and understood and found it charming enough. But it annoyed Justin. He hated to be bothered. He had a keen sense of his own dignity. Above all he had a horror of being inveigled into anything approaching sentimentality. And he was out of touch with Laura. He had been prepared for a jolly little girl, not for a young woman with obvious faults and disconcerting garments. He was just too old to label her challenge ‘cheek,’ yet not old enough to make allowances for her hobble-de-hoyhood, to differentiate between impudence and a lack of _savoir-faire_. Ever since Lucerne he had been, though he had no idea of analysing his attitude, disappointed, on the edge of boredom. He was as unaware as she herself of the beauty of her hand, he merely knew that he didn’t want a great paw sprawling over his book. He wanted to say “Get out!” And she stood there and waited! He leaned back in his chair with elaborate indifference. “Justin?” She was actually smiling at him—pleased, he supposed, with the success of her idiotic performance. “I don’t know that it’s anything much,” he was impelled to begin. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s only——” He broke off. “Tell me,” she insisted. And again he disliked her tone. Who was she to order him about? Oh, well, if she wanted it she should have it.... “You’re rather different from what I expected.” He stopped. It was not perfectly easy, annoyed as he was. “How?” “Oh, I don’t know.” “How?” She had a touch of colour in her cheek. Her bright eyes compelled him. “You’re—rather French, you know. You don’t seem quite—natural.” “How?” “Well, your clothes——” Her face fell. “Oh, Justin, don’t you like them?” “They’re rather bright.” “Oh!” He did not volunteer anything. “What else, Justin?” “Oh, how do I know?” He was impatient. “It’s not my business. But I hate scent and chatter and high heels and things that jingle. And you come down to dinner with your hair fussed out like an actress. But it’s all right, I expect.” “I see.” She managed to smile at him before she swished across to the window, with the little un-English swing of her body that was another of her ways that vaguely irritated him. He made an impatient movement. Of course he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but why on earth did she worry him?