“Just for a small soda,” he explained, and, once inside, changed his mind and had whisky instead. Mr. Burton, sacrificing principle to friendship, had one with him. The bar more than fulfilled Mr. Stiles’s ideas as to its cosiness, and within the space of ten minutes he was on excellent terms with the regular clients. Into the little, old-world bar, with its loud-ticking clock, its Windsor-chairs, and its cracked jug full of roses, he brought a breath of the bustle of the great city and tales of the great cities beyond the seas. Refreshment was forced upon him, and Mr. Burton, pleased at his friend’s success, shared mildly in his reception. It was nine o’clock before they departed, and then they only left to please the landlord. “Nice lot o’ chaps,” said Mr. Stiles, as he stumbled out into the sweet, cool air. “Catch hold—o’ my—arm, George. Brace me—up a bit.” Mr. Burton complied, and his friend, reassured as to his footing, burst into song. In a stentorian voice he sang the latest song from comic opera, and then with an adjuration to Mr. Burton to see what he was about, and not to let him trip, he began, in a lumbering fashion, to dance. Mr. Burton, still propping him up, trod a measure with fewer steps, and cast uneasy glances up the lonely road. On their left the sea broke quietly on the beach below; on their right were one or two scattered cottages, at the doors of which an occasional figure appeared to gaze in mute astonishment at the proceedings. “Dance, George,” said Mr. Stiles, who found his friend rather an encumbrance. “_Hs’h! Stop!_” cried the frantic Mr. Burton, as he caught sight of a woman’s figure bidding farewell in a lighted doorway. Mr. Stiles replied with a stentorian roar, and Mr. Burton, clinging despairingly to his jigging friend lest a worse thing should happen, cast an imploring glance at Mrs. Dutton as they danced by. The evening was still light enough for him to see her face, and he piloted the corybantic Mr. Stiles the rest of the way home in a mood which accorded but ill with his steps. His manner at breakfast next morning was so offensive that Mr. Stiles, who had risen fresh as a daisy and been out to inhale the air on the cliffs, was somewhat offended. “You go down and see her,” he said, anxiously. “Don’t lose a moment; and explain to her that it was the sea-air acting on an old sunstroke.” “She ain’t a fool,” said Mr. Burton, gloomily. He finished his breakfast in silence, and, leaving the repentant Mr. Stiles sitting in the doorway with a pipe, went down to the widow’s to make the best explanation he could think of on the way. Mrs. Dutton’s fresh-coloured face changed as he entered the shop, and her still good eyes regarded him with scornful interrogation. “I—saw you last night,” began Mr. Burton, timidly. “I saw you, too,” said Mrs. Dutton. “I couldn’t believe my eyesight at first.”