“Ah, but it's wonderful, that man's face--I'd like to go to that town--” He felt perhaps that he was taking it all too seriously for he turned round and said laughing: “The boy's daft on lions--Robin, come and look at this lion--here's an animal for you.” The boy put down the Toby and walked slowly and solemnly toward them. He climbed on to Peter's knee and looked at the photograph: “Oh! it _is_ a lion!” he said at last, rubbing his fat finger on the surface of it to see of what material it was made. “Oh! for me!” he said at last in a shrill, excited voice and clutching on to it with one hand. “For me--to hang over my bed.” “No, old man,” Peter answered, “it belongs to the lady here. She must take it away with her.” “Oh! but _I_ want it!” his eyes began to fill with tears. Miss Rossiter bent down and kissed him. He looked at her distrustfully. “I know now I'm not to have it,” he said at last, eyeing her, “or you wouldn't have kissed me.” “Come on,” said Peter, afraid of a scene, “the lady will show you the lion another day--meantime I think bed is the thing.” He mounted the boy on to his shoulder and turned round to Miss Rossiter to say “Good-bye.” The photograph lay on the table between them--“I shan't forget that,” he said. “Oh! but you must come and see us one day. My mother will be delighted. There are a lot more photographs at home. You must bring him out one day, Norah,” she said turning to Miss Monogue. If he had been a primitive member of society in the Stone Age he would at this point, have placed Robin carefully on the floor and have picked Miss Rossiter up and she should never again have left his care. As it was he said, “I shall be delighted to come one day.” “We will talk about Cornwall--” “And Germany.” His hand was burning hot when he gave it her--he knew that she was looking at his eyes. He was abruptly conscious of Miss Monogue's voice behind him. “I've read a quarter of the book, Peter.” He wondered as he turned to her how it could be possible to regard two women so differently. To be so sternly critical of one--her hair that was nearly down, a little ink on her thumb, her blouse that was unbuttoned--and of the other to see her all in a glory so that her whole body, for colour and light and beautiful silence, had no equal amongst the possessions of the earth or the wonders of heaven. Here there was a button undone, there there was a flaming fire. “I won't say anything,” Miss Monogue said, “until I've read more, but it's going to be extraordinarily good I think.” What did he care about “Reuben Hallard?” What did that matter when he had Claire Elizabeth Rossiter in front of him. And then he pulled himself up. It must matter. How delighted an hour ago those words would have made him. “Oh! you think there's something in it?” he said. “We'll wait,” she answered, but her smile and the sparkle in her eyes showed what she thought. What a brick she was! He turned round back to Miss Rossiter.