'--a friend of Mr Merchant's, from New York. And what do you think? Mr Merchant showed him your stories. The ones that have come out. He's been keeping them. Isn't that remarkable? They read them aloud. And this man says that you are more promising than Richard Harding Davis was at your age. Henry--just _think!_' But Henry was scowling. He was thinking with hot, growing concern, of the man. A rich old fellow, of course! One of the dangerous ones. He leaned over the wheel. 'Cicely--you--you're expecting me to-night?' 'Oh! Why yes, Henry, of course I'd like to have you come.' 'But weren't you _expecting_ me?' 'Why--yes, Henry. 'Of course'--stiffly--'if you'd rather I wouldn't come...' 'Please, Henry! You mustn't. Not here on the street!' He stood, flushing darkly, swallowing down the emotion that threatened to choke him.' She murmured:-- 'You know I want you to come.' This was unsatisfactory. Indeed he hardly heard it. He was full of his thoughts about her, about the older men, about those tremendous burdens that he couldn't even pretend to assume. And then came a mad recklessness. 'Oh, Cicely--this is awful--I just can't stand it! Why can't we have an understanding? Call it that? Stop all this uncertainty! I--I--I've just got to speak to your aunt----' 'Henry! Please! Don't say those things---' 'That's it! You won't let me say them.' 'Not here----' 'Oh, please, Cicely! Please! I know I'm not earning much; but I'll be twenty-one on the seventh of November and then I'll have more'n three thousand dollars. Please let me tell her that, Cicely. Oh, I know it wouldn't do to spend all the principal,--but it would go a long way toward setting us up--you know--' his voice trembled, dropped even lower, as with awe--'get the things we'd need when we were--you know--well, married.' He felt, as he poured out this mumbled torrent of words, that he was rushing to a painful failure. Cicely had drawn back. She looked bewildered, and tired. And he had fetched up in a black maze of despairing thoughts. The footman must have heard part of it. He was standing very straight. And the coachman was staring out over the horses. He had probably heard too. Then Madame Watt came sailing out Of Berger's; fixed her hawk eyes on him with a curious interest. He knew that he lifted his hat. He saw, or half saw, that Cicely tried to smile. She did bob her head in the bright quick way she had. Then the Victoria rolled away, and he was standing, one foot in the street, the other on the kerb, gazing after them through a mist of something so near tears that he was reduced to a painful struggle to gain even the appearance of self-control. And then, for a quarter-hour, mood followed mood so fast that they almost maddened him.