The teams took up their new positions. The whistle sounded. Before Miss Amherst had disengaged herself from her companion’s inquiries and counsel, the outside left, amidst erroneous cries of “Off-side!” centred across to the inside right, who centred again, and James McWinter trapped the ball, dodged the two backs and shot hard; the goalkeeper fumbled it, and even supporters of the home side could scarce restrain a cheer. The other team prepared for a change of tactics, and in exactly four minutes precisely the same thing happened, and the goalkeeper dealt with the ball in almost the same manner; tears stood in his eyes; he glanced with reproach at his gloves, and bowed his head penitently to the observations of colleagues. Miss Amherst had to apologise more than once when crying “Shoot!” for kicking the back of a stout gentleman standing just in front of her. When at the end of the ninety minutes’ traffic the visiting side had scored five to none, and four of these goals were to be credited to James McWinter, she turned to her companion. Her father was in a kind of scrum not far off; she recognised the light in his eyes of one to whom money was of no consequence, and into her eyes came the light of one resolved to act promptly. Under cover of the cheering, she made an enthusiastic and apparently genuine declaration. “Oh, but, my dear,” cried Mrs. Burnham alarmedly, “you mustn’t talk like this. This is dreadful. When I said what I did just now, I never meant you should go and throw yourself away on a great clumsy hulk like that, earning not more than £4 a week. Besides, his people are meat salesmen.” “I’m not a vegetarian.” Mr. Amherst, scarlet, almost blue with eagerness, was hurrying by. “Not a word, please,” begged the girl, with extravagant signs of distress, “not a syllable to my father. Promise me you won’t tell him. My mind’s made up; but I don’t want him to know.” Mrs. Burnham put out the hooked handle of her umbrella and caught Mr. Amherst neatly. “Very sorry,” he panted, “can’t spare a moment.” “You just come here first,” ordered the lady resolutely. “There’s something you’ve got to know, and I mean to tell it to you before I go and look after my husband. I’m not going to be blamed afterwards, and have you say it was my fault.” “Do hurry up,” begged Mr. Amherst piteously. “If you knew how urgent it all was, you wouldn’t chatter on like this. I’m going to give them whatever they ask for him. He’s a bachelor, and he won’t mind where he lives.” “Your daughter,” said Mrs. Burnham, speaking with tragic emphasis, “tells me—that she’s fallen in love—at first sight—with that six foot three—called James McSomething—who’s been kicking the ball—like a young demon—between the two posts. And my advice to you is—keep ’em well apart—keep ’em hundreds of miles apart from each other!” * * * * *