“As a rule, yes. I have been fifteen years at St. Peter's awaiting that day when through pure ennui the examiners will pass me. It will be a sad wrench to leave the dear old home.” He continued, a tinge of melancholy in his voice: “You know, I am the last of the old brigade. The medical student no longer riots. His name is no longer a byword; he is a rabbit. Alone, undismayed, I uphold the old traditions. I am, so to speak, one of the old aristocracy. Beneath the snug characteristics of the latter-day student--his sweet abhorrence of a rag, his nasty delight in plays which he calls 'hot-stuff,' his cigarettes and his chess-playing--beneath these my head, like Henley's, is bloody but unbowed. Forgive a tear.” The shower ceased; the tea was finished; the pretty waitress was coyly singeing her modesty in the attractive candle of Mr. Franklyn's suggestions. George left them at the game; strolled aimlessly towards the Marble Arch; beyond it; to the right, and so into a quiet square. Here comes my heroine. II. The hansom, as George walked, was coming towards him--smartly, with a jingle of bells; skimming the kerb. As it reached him (recall that shower) the horse slipped, stumbled, came on its knees. Down came the shafts; out shot the girl. The doors were wide; the impetus took her in her stride. One tiny foot dabbed at the platform's edge; the other twinkled--patent leather and silver buckle--at the step, missed it, plunged with a giant stride for the pavement. “Mercy!” she cried, and came like a shower of roses swirling into George's arms. Completely he caught her. About his legs whipped her skirts; against him pressed her panting bosom; his arms--the action was instinctive--locked around her; the adorable perfume of her came on him like breeze from a violet bed; her very cheek brushed his lips--since the first kiss it was the nearest thing possible to a kiss. She twisted backwards. Modesty chased alarm across her face--caught, battled, overcame it; flamed triumphant. Fright at her accident drove her pale; shame at the manner of her descent--leg to the knee and an indelicacy of petticoats--agitated she had glimpsed it as she leapt--flushed her crimson from the line of her dress about her throat to the wave of her hair upon her brow. She twisted back. “Oh, what must you think of me?” she gasped. He simply could not say. CHAPTER VII. Moving Passages With A Heroine. I. George could not say. His senses were washed aswim by this torrent of beauty poured unexpected through eyes to brain. It surged the centres to violent commotion, one jostling another in a whirlpool of conflict. Out of the tumult alarm flashed down the wires to his heart--set it banging; flashed in wild message to his tongue--locked it.