“Well, it don't look much like it. I caught her eye in the passage when we were coming downstairs, and you don't tell me--not much!” “Did you though?” Bob said. Himself he had never been so fortunate. “No mistake about it. Why, d'you mean to say you've never got as far as that, even?” “Tell you she won't look at me.” Mr. Moss laughed. Enjoyed the “score” over his host for a few moments, and then: “Tell you what it is, old bird,” said he, “you're going the wrong way about it. I know another case just the same. Chap out Wimbledon way. His people kept a girl--topper she was, too--dark. He was always messing round just like you are, and she was stand-offish as a nun. One night he came home early, a bit screwed--people out--girl in. Met her in the drawing-room. Almost been afraid to speak to her before. Had a bit of fizz on board him now--_you_ know; didn't care a rip for anybody. Gave her a smacking great kiss, and, by Gad!--well, she _was_ all right. Told him she'd always stood off up to then because she was never quite sure what he meant--afraid he didn't mean anything, and that she might get herself into no end of a row if she started playing around. Same with this little bit of goods, I'll lay.” Bob was interested. “Shouldn't be surprised if you're right,” he said; and moodily cogitated upon the line of action prescribed. Mr. Moss offered to bet that where girls were concerned he was never far wrong. “Slap-dash style is what they like,” he remarked, and with a careless “It's all they understand” dismissed the subject. It remained, however, in Bob's mind throughout the evening; sprang instantly when, after breakfast upon the following day, he caught a glimpse of Mary as he prepared for the City. Standing for a moment in the hall, it occurred to him that this very evening offered the opportunity he sought. Mr. and Mrs. Chater were to dine at the house of a neighbour. The invitation had included Bob--fortunately he had refused it. Returning to the morning-room, “I shan't be in to-night,” he told his mother. “Then I needn't order any dinner for you?” “No.” He hung about irresolute, then lit a cigar, and between the puffs, “Shall you be late?” he asked carelessly. “Sure to be,” Mrs. Chater told him. “It's going to be a big bridge drive, you know. We shan't get back before midnight. Don't sit up for us, dear.” Bob inhaled a long breath from his cigar, exhaled it deliciously. The chance for the slap-dash style was at hand. “Oh, I'll be later than you. Lemmy Moss has got a bachelors' party on. We're going to have a billiard match.” “That's capital then, dear. I shall let the servants go to Earl's Court--I've promised them a long time.” Bob whistled gaily as he mounted his 'bus for the City. The opportunity was surely exceptional. At eight o'clock he returned; noiselessly let himself in. The gas in the hall burned low. Beneath the library door gleamed a stronger light. Bob turned the handle.