Why did she do such things, and tire herself out, and get her lovely little feet wet? He longed to take care of her, to prevent her in all her doings, to put his great strong body between her and everything that could in any way hurt her. He hoped George had taken this line. He was sure he must have. Any man would. Any man--the words brought him back to Stephen, who was, he was convinced, a suitor, even if she did forget his name. Perhaps she forgot because he was one of many. What so likely? One of many.... He felt suddenly uneasy again, and rang the bell of the flat in a great hurry, as if by getting in quickly he could somehow forestall and confound events. The door was opened by Mrs. Mitcham, whom he was later so abundantly to know. All unconscious of the future they looked upon each other for the first time; and he saw a most respectable elderly person, not a parlourmaid, for she was without a cap, nor a lady’s maid he judged for some reason, though he knew little of ladies’ maids, but more like his idea--he had often secretly wished he had one--of a nanny; and she saw a fair, long-legged young man, with eyes like the eyes of children when they arrive at a birthday party. ‘Will Mrs. Cumfrit be in soon?’ he asked; and the way he asked matched the look in his eyes. ‘I know she is out--but how soon will she be in?’ ‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ said Mrs. Mitcham, considering the eager-eyed young gentleman. ‘Well, look here--could I come in and wait?’ Naturally Mrs. Mitcham hesitated. ‘Well, I’ll only have to wait downstairs, then, and I can’t stand that porter.’ Mrs. Mitcham happened not to be able to stand the porter either, and her face relaxed a little. ‘Is Mrs. Cumfrit expecting you, sir?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ said Christopher boldly; for so she was, the following Sunday week. ‘She usually tells me----’ began Mrs. Mitcham doubtfully; but she did draw a little aside, upon which he promptly went in. And as he gave her his hat and coat she hoped it was all right, for she thought she had her mistress’s friends and acquaintances at her fingers’ ends, and the young gentleman had certainly never been there before. She took him towards the drawing-room. ‘What name shall I say, sir, when Mrs. Cumfrit comes in?’ she inquired, turning to him at the door. ‘Mr. Christopher Monckton,’ he said,--abstractedly, because he was going to see Catherine’s room, the room she probably spent most of her time in, her shrine; and Mrs. Mitcham hesitating a little--for suppose she had done wrong, letting in a stranger, and the tea-table put ready with poor Mr. Cumfrit’s silver spoons and sugar-basin on it? Ought she not rather to have asked the young gentleman to wait in the hall?--Mrs. Mitcham, with doubt in her heart, opened the door and allowed him to pass in, eyeing him as he passed.