Stephen Guillemot sat over his uncomfortable breakfast-table in the rooms he shared with his friend, and cursed his luck. His friend was away by the sea, and he was here in the dirty and sordid blackness of his Temple chambers. But he had no money for a holiday; and when Dornington had begged him to accept a loan, he had sworn at Dornington, and Dornington had gone off not at all pleased. And now Dornington was by the sea, and he was here. The flies buzzed in the panes and round the sticky marmalade jar; the sun poured in at the open window. There was no work to do. Stephen was a solicitor by trade; but, in fact and perforce, an idler. No business came to him. All day long the steps of clients sounded on the dirty, old wooden staircase--clients for Robinson on the second, for Jones on the fourth, but none for Guillemot on the third. Even now steps were coming, though it was only ten o'clock. The young man glanced at the marmalade jar, at the crooked cloth stained with tea, which his laundress had spread for his breakfast. "Suppose it is a client----" He broke off with a laugh. He had never been able to cure himself of that old hope that some day the feet of a client--a wealthy client--would pause at his door, but the feet had always gone by--as these would do. The steps did indeed pass his door, paused, came back, and--oh wonder! it was _his_ knocker that awoke the Temple echoes. He glanced at the table. It was hopeless. He shrugged his shoulders. "I daresay it's only a bill," he said, and went to see. The newcomer was impatient, for even as Guillemot opened the door, the knocker was in act to fall again. "Is Mr Guillemot---- Oh, Stephen, I should have known you anywhere!" A radiant vision in a white linen gown--a very smart tailor-made-looking linen gown--and a big white hat was standing in his doorway, shaking him warmly by the hand. "Won't you ask me in?" asked the vision, smiling in his bewildered face. He drew back mechanically, and closed the door after him as she went in. Then he followed her into the room that served him for office and living-room, and stood looking at her helplessly. "You don't know me a bit," she said; "it's a shame to tease you. I'll take off my hat and veil; you will know me then. It's these fine feathers!" And take them off she did--in front of the fly-spotted glass on the mantel-piece; then she turned a bright face on him, a pretty mobile face, crowned with bright brown hair. And still he stood abashed. "I never thought you would have forgotten the friend of childhood's hour," she began again. "I see I must tell you in cold blood." "Why, it's Rosamund!" he cried suddenly. "Do forgive me! I never, never dreamed---- My dear Rosamund, you aren't really changed a bit it's only--your hair being done up and----" "And the fine feathers," said she, holding out a fold of her dress. "They are very pretty feathers, aren't they?" "Very," said he. And then suddenly a silence of embarrassment fell between them.