Mary was curled in a big chair with a book. Certainly the opportunity was exceptional. At the noise of his entry she sprang to her feet with a little cry. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed: “what a fright you gave me!” Bob pushed the door. He laughed. “Did I?”; came towards her. “Are you all alone? What a shame!” “Minnie is in the kitchen, I think. Mrs. Chater said you wouldn't be in to-night.” “Why do you think I came?” “I don't know.” “I came to see you.” She gave a nervous little laugh and made to pass him. Bob fell back a pace, guarding the door. “Don't you think that was thoughtful of me?” “I don't know what you mean. There was no need.” “What! No need! You all alone like this when all the rest are enjoying themselves!” “So was I. A long evening with a book.” She had fallen back as he, speaking, had slowly advanced. Now the great chair in which she had been seated was alone between them. “Oh, books! Books are rot.” He stepped around the chair. She fell back; was cornered between the hearth and a low table. Bob dropped into the chair; boldly regarded her; his eyes as expressive of his slap-dash intentions as he could make them: “Look here, I want you to enjoy yourself for once. I'm going to take you to a music-hall or somewhere.” He stretched a foot; touched her. She drew back close against the mantelpiece, her agitation very evident. “Well, don't that please you?” “You know it is impossible.” Bob paid no regard. This was that same diffidence with which the chap near Wimbledon had had to contend. “We'll come out of the show early and have a bit of supper and be back before half-past eleven. Who's to know? Now, then?” “It's very kind of you. I know you mean it kindly--” “Of course I do--” “But I'd rather not.” “Are you afraid?” She was desperately afraid. Her face, the shaking of her hand where it was pressed back against the wall, and the catch in her voice advertised her apprehension. She was afraid of this big young man confidently lolling before her. She said weakly: “It would not be right.” Bob sat up. “Is that all?” he laughed. His hands were upon the arms of the chair, and he made to pull himself up towards her. She saw her mistake. “No,” she cried hurriedly--“no; I would not go with you in any case.” A shadow flickered upon Bob's face. “What do you mean?” “I mean what I say. Please let me pass.” “I want to be friends with you. Why can't you let me?” “Please let me pass. Mr. Chater.” Bob lay back. He said with a laugh, “Well, I'm not stopping you, am I?” She hesitated a moment. The passage between the table and the long chair was narrow. But truly he was not stopping her--so far as one might judge. She took her skirts about her with her left hand; stepped forward; was almost past the chair before he moved. Then he flung out a hand and caught her wrist, drawing her. “Now!” he cried, and his voice was thick.