Plashers Mead had never appeared so desirable as now when it was the prelude to such an enterprise as this of consecrating with a last embrace the rain and gloom of November. If he had any hesitation about the rightness or even, setting probity aside, about the prudence of such an action, he justified himself with romantic reasons; and if he was driven by conscience to an ultimate defence, he justified himself with the exceptional circumstances that gave him a sanction to accept from Pauline this sacrifice of her traditions. Impulses to consider what he was doing were easily dismissed: indeed before he reached his house there was not one left. Inside, the warmth and comfort of Plashers Mead were additional incentives to prosecute his resolve; every gleaming book, the breathing of the dog upon the mat before the fire, the gentle purr of the lamp, all seemed to demand that voluptuous renunciation which would later urge him forth again into the night. That it would probably be raining was not to prove an obstacle: Pauline would be more sure to come if she thought he were standing outside in the rain. It was a second Eve of St. Agnes; and Guy went across to his shelf and took down Keats. He had come to the knights and ladies praying in their dumb oratories, when there was a knock at the front-door, and his mind leapt to the thought that Pauline might have sent a note by Birdwood to prevent his coming to-night. The knock sounded again, and as Miss Peasey was evidently too deeply immersed in The Pilgrim's Progress, her vespertine lectionary, to pay heed to visitors at this hour of nine o'clock, he must go down and open the door himself. "Are we disturbing you?" It was the voice of Brydone, and with Willsher in his wake he came into the hall. "Charlie and I have made several shots to find you in, but of course we know you're a busy man nowadays." "Go on upstairs, will you?" said Guy making a tremendous effort to appear hospitable. "I'll dig out the whisky." He went along and shouted in Miss Peasey's ear what was wanted. She looked up as if it were Apollyon himself come to affront her holy abstraction. "I think there's some left from that bottle we got in August.... I shall lay it on the mat," she told him. Guy nodded encouragingly and went upstairs to join his guests. "Well, I suppose you'll be soon having a missus in charge here," said Brydone heartily. Willsher hummed Bachelor Boys as a contributory echo of the question. "Oh, no, we're not getting married at once, you know," Guy explained. "Well, you're quite right," Brydone declared heartily. "After all, being close at hand like this, you're not much likely to draw a blank in the lottery." "Marriage is a lottery, isn't it?" said Guy with polite sarcasm. "Rather," sighed Willsher. "Terrific!"