She gave a half-sound of dismay--of fear; tried to twist free. Bob laughed; pulled sharply on her arm. She was standing sideways to him--against the sudden strain lost her balance and half toppled across the chair. As Bob reflected, when afterwards feeding upon the incident, had he not been as unprepared as she for her sudden stumble, he would have made--as he put it--a better thing of it. As it was, her face falling against his, he was but able to give a half kiss when she had writhed herself free and made across the room. But that embrace of her had warmed Bob's passions. Springing up, he caught her as she fumbled with the latch; twisted her to him. For a moment they struggled, he grasping her wrists and pressing towards her. With the intention of encircling her waist he slipped his hold. But panic made her the quicker. Her outstretched arms held him at bay for a breathing space; then as he broke them down she dealt him a swinging blow upon the face that staggered him back a step, his hand to his cheek. Mrs. Chater opened the door. “Oh, he kissed me! He kissed me!” Mary cried. Bob said very slowly, “You--infernal--little--liar.” Mrs. Chater glowered upon Mary with cruel eyes. “It was a fortunate thing,” she said coldly, “that a headache brought me home. Go to your room, miss.” We may hurry across the bridge. CHAPTER III. Excursions In Love. I. Saturday was the day immediately following this scene. George, on a 'bus carrying him towards Regent's Park, was in spirit at one with the gay freshness that gave this September morning a spring-like air. A week of torrid heat, in which London crawled, groaned, and panted, had been wiped from the memory by an over-night thunderstorm that burst the pent-up dams of heaven and loosed cool floods upon the staring streets. No misty drizzle nor gusty shower it had been, but a strong, straight, continuous downpour, seemingly impelled by tremendous pressure. Dusty roofs, dusty streets, dusty windows it had scoured and scrubbed and polished; torrents had poured down the gutters--whenever temporarily the pressure seemed to relax, the ears of wakeful Londoners were sung to by the gurgle and rush of frantic streams driving before them the collected debris of many days. Upon this morning, in the result, a tempest might have swept the town and found never a speck of dust to drive before it. The very air had been washed and sweetened; and London's workers, scurrying to and from their hives, seemed also to have benefited by some attribute of the downpour that tinted cheeks, sparkled eyes, and, rejuvenating limbs, gave to them a new sprightliness of movement.