"I don't want a chaperon. Why should I? It's no fun having her poking round, and listening to every word one says. It's ever so much nicer alone." "I don't doubt it, but--in Rome one must do as the Romans do, Miss Briskett! In England a man does not take a girl to a theatre unchaperoned. It's not the thing." "I don't care a mite. It's the custom with us, anyway, and there's no country in the world where women are more respected. What's the harm, I want to know!" "No harm at all. That's not the question. It's simply not the custom." "Do you mean to say you refuse to take me alone, even if I ask you?" "I do!" "Then you're a mean old thing, and I shan't go at all!" Guest laughed; an amused little laugh, in which there was an unwonted softness. Somehow, he quite enjoyed being called "a mean old thing" by Cornelia Briskett. There was an intimacy in the sound, which more than nullified the disparagement. "I think you will! You are too `straight' to punish me for what is not my fault. It would be much more amusing for me to take you about unattended, and so far as I'm concerned, I can afford to ignore conventions. A man can do as he likes. It is you I am thinking of. You may not approve of our ideas, but that does not alter their existence, or the fact that whip; you are here you must be judged by them. You would not like to be considered careless of your reputation?" "I don't care a mite what the old fossils, think." "_I_ do, then; and I will take no part in putting you in a false position." Cornelia pouted, but in her heart admired his firmness, as any woman would. She stared at the forest of chimney-tops without speaking, for several minutes, then suddenly turned towards him, speaking in what was evidently supposed to be a lifelike imitation of the English accent, as spoken by the Lady of the Manor. "Th-anks; aw-fly tha-anks! How varry kind! I shall be charmed. ... Too aw-fly sweet of you, don't-cher-know!" "That's all right!" laughed Guest, happily. "We'll manage to enjoy ourselves, never fear! There's such a thing as taking _two_ chaperons and letting them play with each other. ... Here we are at Paddington. Are your friends coming to meet you?" "They are. I guess they'll be waiting on the platform. She's tall and fine-looking, and dresses fit to kill--" She paused with a sharp little intake of breath, for the train, as it snorted into the station, had passed by the figure of a woman standing conspicuously alone--a tall woman, with hair of a violent peroxide gold, holding up an elaborate white gown, to display a petticoat of flounced pink silk. It was Cornelia's first introduction to Mrs Moffatt in "shore clothes," and to an eye accustomed to Norton simplicity the vision was sufficiently startling. Also--it was hateful to think such things--but, that hair! On the steamer it had been just an ordinary brown!