This was awkward. He could hardly, as he felt, drop into the seat just behind them. Besides, who was the girl in the other half of that seat? The hat was unfamiliar; yet something in the way it moved about came to him as ghosts come. He weakly considered returning to the smoker; even turned; but a lady caught his sleeve. It was Mrs John W. MacLouden. 'I wanted to tell you how much we are enjoying your stories in the _Gleaner_,' she said. 'Mr MacLouden says they're worthy of Stevenson. His _New Arabian Nights_ you know. Mr MacLouden met Stevenson once. In London.' Henry blushed; mumbled; edged away. Mary Ames looked up. Her cool eyes rested on him. But she didn't bow, or smile. He wasn't sure that she even inclined her head. His blush became a flush. He forgot Mrs MacLouden. It seemed now that he couldn't retreat. Not after that. He must face that girl. Walk coolly by. He couldn't take that seat, of course; but to walk deliberately by and on into the car behind would help a little. At least in his feelings; and these were what mattered.... Who _was_ the girl under that unfamiliar hat? Some one the Ameses knew well, clearly. He moved on, straight toward the enemy. Dignity, he felt, was the thing. Yes, you had to be dignified. Though it was a little hard to carry with the car lurching like this. He wished his face wouldn't burn so. The girl beneath that hat raised her head, and exhibited the blue eyes and the pleasantly, even prettily freckled face of Martha Caldwell! Henry stood, in a sense fascinated, staring down. He had put Martha out of his life for ever. But here she was! He had believed, now and then during the summer, that he hated her. To-day it was interesting--indeed, enough of the old emotional tension fingered within him to make it momentarily, slightly thrilling--to discover that he liked her. He saw her now with an unexpected detachment. He even saw that she was prettier. The smile that was just fading when their eyes met had a touch of radiance in it. Beside Martha, on the unoccupied half of the seat, lay her shopping bag. In a preoccupied manner, as the smile died, she reached out to pick it up and make room. But the little action which had begun impersonally, brought up memories. Her hand stopped abruptly in air; her colour rose. Then, as Henry, very red, lips compressed, was about to plunge on along the aisle, the hand came down on the bag. She said, half audibly--it was a question:-- 'Sit here?' Henry was gripping the seat-corner just back of Mrs Ames's shoulder; a rigid shoulder. Mary had turned stiffly round. He couldn't stop his whirling mind long enough to decide anything. Why hadn't he gone straight by? What could they talk about? Unless they were to talk low, confidentially, Mary and her mother would hear most of it. And they couldn't talk confidentially. Not very well. He took the seat. What _could_ they say?