"Mr. James! Has he been here?" cried Hilary Vance; and there was far more uneasiness than pleasure in his tone on thus hearing of his friend's return. "Yes. He came to know if you were engaged yet," said Pollyooly. "Oh, did he?" said Hilary Vance very glumly. "Yes. And I told him you weren't." "That's right," he said in a tone of relief. "And he said we must stop the affray." "He was right. It would be criminal," said Hilary Vance solemnly. "After all it isn't myself: I have to consider posterit--" A sudden, very loud knocking on the front door cut short the word. "That's him!" said Pollyooly in a hushed voice. Hilary Vance rose, folded his two big arms, and faced the door of the studio, his brow knitted in a dreadful frown. "Hadn't I better send him away?" said Pollyooly anxiously. Hilary Vance ground his teeth and scowled steadily at the studio door for a good half-minute. Then he let his arms fall to his sides, walked with a very haughty air to his bedroom, opened the door, and from the threshold said: "Yes: you'd better send him away--if you can." As Pollyooly went to let the visitor in, she heard him (Mr. Vance) turn his key in the lock of his bedroom door. It was perhaps as well that he did so; for as Pollyooly opened the front door a young man whose flashing eye proclaimed him Mr. Reginald Butterwick, pushed quickly past her and bounced into the studio. Pollyooly followed him quickly, somewhat surprised by his size. He bounced well into the studio with an air of splendid intrepidity, which would have been more splendid had he been three or four inches higher and thicker, and uttered a snort of disappointment at its emptiness. He turned on Pollyooly and snapped out: "Where's your guv'ner? Where's Hilary Vance?" Pollyooly hesitated; she was still taken aback by the young man's lack of the formidable largeness Flossie had led her to expect; and she was, besides, a very truthful child. Then she said: "I expect he's somewhere in Chelsea." "When'll he be back?" snapped the young man. "He's generally in to tea," with less hesitation; and she looked at him with very limpid eyes. "He is, is he? Then I'll wait for him," said the young man in as bloodcurdling a tone as his size would allow: he did not stand five feet three in his boots. He stood still for a moment, scowling round the studio; then he said in a dreadful tone: "There'll be plenty of room for us." He fell into the position of a prizefighter on guard and danced two steps to the right, and two steps to the left. Pollyooly gazed at him earnestly. Except for his flashing eye, he was not a figure to dread, for what he lost in height he gained in slenderness. He was indeed uncommonly slender. In fact, either he had forgotten to tell Flossie that he was a featherweight boxer, or she had forgotten to pass the information on. The most terrible thing about him was his fierce air, and the most dangerous-looking his sharp, tip-tilted nose.