She told the maid to bring supper for Doctor Woolley to the dining-room, but she herself carried in her own plate and cup and saucer, knowing that Florrie was quite aware she had already eaten her evening meal with Mrs. Woolley. The doctor was drawing the cork out of a bottle as she came into the room. The electric light was turned on, and the small dining-room, with drawn red curtains, and the gas-fire burning, was bright and hot. The doctor ate heavily of cold meat and pickles, prodding with a fork amongst the mixed contents of the glass jar until he had annexed all the pickled onions that it contained. He made Elsie sit down and eat too, but he made no demur to her assurance that she wasn’t hungry and only wanted some cake and a cup of cocoa. At first the doctor gave all his attention to the food and warmth of which he stood in need, and Elsie felt self-conscious, and as though she were out of place. She ceased to answer his occasional facetious interjections, and threw herself back in her chair, gazing down at her own clasped hands. Gradually the atmosphere of the room altered, and Elsie’s instinct told her that the current of magnetism that had never failed her yet was awakening its inevitable response in the man opposite. At once she felt confident again, and at her ease. “I say, why didn’t the missus take you to the theatre when she found I was busy?” he queried suddenly. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose she never thought of such a thing.” “Wanted someone nearer her own age, eh? You won’t find the ladies running after someone younger and prettier than themselves, you know. Too much of a contrast.” Elsie laughed self-consciously. “All the better for me, eh? I’m not often allowed to get you all to myself like this, eh? Ah, when I was a gay young bacheldore things was different, they was.” Elsie laughed again, this time in spontaneous tribute to the humour of wilful mis-pronunciation. “Now, what about this bottle that you made me get out, eh? Where are the glasses?” He found two in the cupboard of the carved walnut sideboard, and poured a liberal allowance of port from the bottle into each. “Oh, I couldn’t, Doctor! You must excuse me, really you must. I simply couldn’t.” “Oh, couldn’t you, really, awfully, truly couldn’t?” he mimicked in exaggerated falsetto. “Well, you’ve got to--so that’s _that_!” “Who says so?” “I say so. I. _Moi._ ‘_Je_,’ replies I, knowing the language. Come along now, be a good girl.” He laid his big coarse hand on hers, and at the contact the familiar thrill of sensuous excitement and pleasure ran through her. “Are you going to drink it?” he said masterfully. “Oh, I suppose I must try it. I’ve never tasted wine before,” Elsie added truthfully. “High time you began, then.” He went back to his place, and drank in long gulps, first saying: “Our hands have met--our lips not yet-- Here’s hoping!” Elsie sipped at her glass, choked, and put it down again. “How beastly!” she said, shuddering.