Miss Wych had intended to say that icily, but in point of fact she said it very shyly. There was a girl who worked with her in the millinery department of Messrs. Come & Go who said: “When I don’t like a boy I just give him the Once-Over and he’s Off.” Miss Wych envied that girl. But she called up her courage and tried to give the stranger the Once-Over. The stranger, however, did not go Off. The stranger was a lean young man with deep dark eyes that seemed to whirl with the trouble that was in him. “You see,” he said, “it’s like this, Miss Wych. I had to meet you somehow. But how? I did not know what to do. And so I did this. Miss Wych dear, will you forgive me?” Miss Wych thought: “There are times when one must placate the devil. This must be one of those times.” Then Miss Wych discovered a most extraordinary thing. She discovered that she was looking deep into the stranger’s dark eyes. She flushed as red as a tennis-court. “This is terrible,” she said bitterly. “Terrible! How dare you speak to me! Please go away at once.” “I can’t,” said the young stranger. “I would if I could. But I just can’t. I’m sorry.” Miss Wych thought: “He says he’s _sorry_, the beast!” “You are mad,” said Miss Wych indifferently. The sun walked in fire and glory, but the world was dark, the world was dark, and bold bad men walked the streets for to be offensive to maids. The young stranger, for instance, did not go away. He said desperately: “If you will give me just one look you will see that I don’t mean to offend you.” “That may be so,” said Miss Wych bitterly, “but you do.” “You only think I do,” protested the lean young man. “That’s all it is, really.” Then Miss Wych discovered a most extraordinary thing. She discovered that she was walking slowly, slowly. Instantly she walked on quickly. The lean young man sighed: “Oh, dear!” Miss Wych said breathlessly: “I don’t even know your name! And how you have got to know mine I really can’t imagine! But you don’t look wicked. Please don’t go on being nasty! Please! Won’t you go away now?” “Pamela Wych,” the young stranger whispered, “Pamela Wych, Pamela Wych, Pamela Wych, how the devil was I to meet you except by daring this? Further, you are my fate, and what sort of a man would I be if I were to leave my fate in the very second of finding it?” Miss Wych thought: “This is getting serious.” “That is all very well,” she said reasonably, “talking about fate and big things like that. But when you take it as just behaviour you can see as well as I do that it is all wrong. Sir, there are things one can’t do, and this is one of them, and so you must please go away at once.” “That is the one thing I can’t do,” said the young stranger desperately. “You see, although you won’t show me your face I can see the tip of your ear peeping out from your hair, and it is as red as a rose.” Miss Wych thought: “This can’t go on. How would it be if I called a policeman?”