Well! to-morrow I am going to put my foot down, very firmly, on anything more of _this_ sort! CHAPTER XIX THE FIRST HANDSHAKE This morning I was just finishing dressing when I heard a blackbird’s whistle, two or three times repeated, just outside my window. It interrupted my meditations on a rather interesting subject. Namely: What was my employer going to say to me to-day about that episode last night? How—in what spirit, in what words, would he make his apology? Of course I know that for the offence of having kissed a girl who is nothing to him there _is_ no apology a man can make. The mere suggestion of apologizing for that is adding insult to injury. The only possible excuse is to say: “_I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I couldn’t help myself_”—allowing an unspoken—“_and I’d do it again if I had the chance_” to be interpreted by the tone in which it was spoken. However, _that_ was quite out of the question here, seeing that there had been no kiss of that sort in the affair. The offence, however, was just as inexcusable; more so. To have kissed me on the hair—why, even as I took up my brushes before the glass this morning I saw the reflection of another angry wave of scarlet in my face brought there by the memory which can’t be just brushed away. It might not have been so infuriating if it hadn’t been the first time.... For I’d never before allowed any man to attempt such a thing. I’ve always known that one ought to stick to what Lady Mary Wortley-Montague says in that little poem: “He _comes too near_ who _comes to be denied_!” I remembered that last night, as I lay awake; remembered quoting it to Cicely Harradine. She had laughed and turned rather pink—this was after some dance we’d both been to at the Slade—and had said, “Yes, Tots dear; that is so sweet—and so awfully true, of course; only—it _was_ in the eighteenth century, dear, wasn’t it? and isn’t it _rather_ what you call ‘a Counsel of Perfection?’” It oughtn’t to be so—it needn’t have been so for me, but now—that’s all been spoilt—and by _him_! What can he say about it? “Nothing else for it—my uncle’s doing.”—Yes, but I’ve got all my answers for _that_ excuse. “I was goaded into it by having had such an awful evening; felt I must do something outrageous.” Yes, but not _that_! I had had an awful evening too! And _I_ hadn’t wanted to kiss anybody! “Hadn’t time to think of anything else.” Nonsense! A business man with his wits sharpened by daily interviews with other sharp-witted people for whose benefit he has to think out, even while he’s speaking, excuses, schemes, promises, goodness knows what! Oh, he’d have to say something more convincing than that to me! Again I heard the whistle—a monotonous note for a blackbird’s! Then came a sharp tap at my opened, latticed, wistaria-garlanded casement. A pebble had been flung up against it.