'It's half-past five,' said Leonora, glancing into the inner room, after she had spoken to Mr. Twemlow. Three hours and a half had Ethel been in thrall! It was like a century to her. She could have dropped into her mother's arms. 'What have you come in, Nora?' asked Stanway, 'the trap?' 'No, the four-wheeled dog-cart, dear.' 'Well, Twemlow, drive up and have tea with us. Come along and have a Five Towns high-tea.' 'Oh, Mr. Twemlow, do!' said Milly, nearly drowning Leonora's murmured invitation. Arthur hesitated. 'Come _along_,' Stanway insisted genially. 'Of course you will.' 'Thank you,' was the rather feeble answer. 'But I shall have to leave pretty early.' 'We'll see about that,' said Stanway. 'You can take Mr. Twemlow and the girls, Nora, and I'll follow as quick as I can. I must dictate a letter or two.' The three women, Twemlow in the midst, escaped like a pretty cloud out of the rude, dingy office, and their bright voices echoed _diminuendo_ down the stair. Stanway rang his bell fiercely. The dictionary and the letter and Ethel's paper lay forgotten on the dusty table of the inner room. * * * * * Arthur Twemlow felt that he ought to have been annoyed, but he could do no more than keep up a certain reserve of manner. Neither the memory of his humiliating clumsy lies about his sister in broaching the matter of his father's estate to Stanway, nor his clear perception that Stanway was a dishonest and a frightened man, nor his strong theoretical objection to Stanway's tactics in so urgently inviting him to tea, could overpower the sensation of spiritual comfort and complacency which possessed him as he sat between Leonora and Ethel at Leonora's splendidly laden table. He fought doggedly against this sensation. He tried to assume the attitude of a philosopher observing humanity, of a spider watching flies; he tried to be critical, cold, aloof. He listened as one set apart, and answered in monosyllables. But despite his own volition the monosyllables were accompanied by a smile that destroyed the effect of their curtness. The intimate charm of the domesticity subdued his logical antipathies. He knew that he was making a good impression among these women, that for them there was something romantic and exciting about his history and personality. And he liked them all. He liked even Rose, so pale, strange, and contentious. In regard to Milly, whom he had begun by despising, he silently admitted that a girl so vivacious, supple, sparkling, and pretty, had the right to be as pertly foolish as she chose. He took a direct fancy to Ethel. And he decided once for ever that Leonora was a magnificent creature.