The refusal placed a last obstacle in the path of George's scheme, but he did not demur. Primarily he dared not. To demur might raise again that blunder he had let escape when he had said, “She'll come for anything”; this time it might rage around and not be captured. All might be wrecked. Secondly he felt there to be no great need for protest. The confidence of having won thus far gave him courage against this final difficulty. “Trust me, sir,” he said. Very soberly he paced from the room; gently closed the door; with the tread of one bearing a full heart heavily moved up the stairs. He reached his room; ripped off sobriety. “Oh, Mary!” he exultantly cried, “if I can get you down here, old girl!” Mr. Marrapit, meanwhile, stepped to the room where his cats lived; lovingly toyed with his pets; took the Rose of Sharon a walk in the garden. He was in pleasant mood. Great had been the distress of the night, but this man had enjoyed a luxurious warm bath--in crocodile's tears. CHAPTER V. Miss Porter Swallows A Particularly Large Sweet. I. Mary in the little Battersea lodgings was at breakfast when her George's telegram arrived. She puckered over its mystery; shaped events this way and that, but could make of them no keyhole that the message would fit and unlock. She flew among the higher improbabilities: George, she conjectured, had misrepresented this stony-hearted uncle; last night had told all to Mr. Marrapit, and Mr. Marrapit had warmed to her and bade him fetch her to Herons' Holt. She ripped George's description of his uncle from about the old man; dressed Mr. Marrapit in snowy locks and a benign smile; pictured him coming down the steps with outstretched hand to greet her. She heard him say, “My daughter”; she saw him draw George to her, lock their hands; she heard him murmur, “Bless you, my children.” This was a romantic young woman. A poached egg was allowed to grow cold as she trembled over her delectable fancies. But a glance at the telegram pulled her from these delicious flights; bumped her to earth. “_Think can get you situation here._” “Situation” drove the fatherly air from Mr. Marrapit; once more rehabilitated him as her George presented him--grim and masterly. Further conjecture altogether drove Mr. Marrapit from the picture. What situation could be offered her in the Marrapit household? Why should “here” mean Herons' Holt? It must mean at a house in the district. Upon the magic carpet of this new thought my Mary was whirled again in an imaged paradise. She would be near her George. High in these clouds she ran to her bedroom for her hat; but with it there descended upon her head a new thought that again sent her toppling earthwards. Characterless, and worse than characterless, how was she to get any such delightful post? My Mary started up the street for the Agency, blinking tears.