"Won’t you sit down, sir?" young Gordon said hospitably. Mr. Wycherly sat down. "I come," he said, "to discharge a debt," and laid a shilling on the table beside him, "and I must thank you for carrying home the eggs for my ward." "It’s very good of you," the young man mumbled, looking much confused; "it was nothing really; you see, my dog was the cause of the accident. I was bound to replace the eggs." "My ward begged me to pay her debt at once. That is my reason for invading you at such an unseasonable hour, but since you have received me so hospitably, I wonder if you would further allow me to ask you a question, Mr. Gordon?" There was no light in the room save the grey gloaming of a May evening. Across the road Mr. Wycherly could see a brilliant, luminous square defining his own parlour window; he was too short-sighted to see the studious figure seated at the table, but he perceived that she must be plainly visible to those possessing normal sight. "Certainly, sir," young Gordon said politely. "You probably"—here Mr. Wycherly turned a kind, inquiring gaze upon his young host—"have sisters?" Mr. Gordon bowed. "I have been out of the way of these things for so long that it is possible I may make mistakes—I shall be extremely obliged if you will tell me—quite frankly, do you think we do wrong in allowing Miss Stavrides to walk about Oxford by herself?" George Gordon looked very hot indeed. The last thing he had dreamt of was that this dignified, white-haired old gentleman should consult him about anything. Honest himself, he was touched at the evident earnestness and simplicity that craved his opinion. Acting almost automatically, he lit the gas and stood well in the centre of the light, looking fairly and squarely at his guest. "Since you do me the honour to ask me, sir, I should say that there is not the smallest harm in allowing Miss Stavrides to walk alone anywhere. If she were my sister, I shouldn’t be a bit afraid because, you see, she’s not that sort——" "Yes," said Mr. Wycherly; "please tell me why." "It’s a little difficult," the young man continued, "without sounding a bit of a cad—but it’s like this. She walks along thinking her own thoughts, and if she looks at you—she seems to look through you. Now, there are girls, nice girls, pretty girls—ladies—quite ladies, you know—and yet you know they’ve seen you. Well, all I can say is, you’re jolly well sure Miss Stavrides hasn’t—and so it’s no good." "And yet," Mr. Wycherly said smoothly, "she seemed to be aware of your existence." George Gordon thrust his hands deep into his pockets, but he still looked Mr. Wycherly straight in the eyes.