Tea was over, but the maid-of-all-work had not removed the things; and when Heriot entered, the large loaf and the numerous knives, which are held indispensable to afternoon tea in Lavender Street, were still on the big round table. The aspect of the room did not strike him any more. He was familiar with it, like the view of the kitchen when the front door had been opened, and the glimpse of clothes-line in the yard beyond. "May I come in?" he said. "Did you expect me?" "Lor, it's Mr. Heriot!" said Mrs. Baines. "Fancy!" She told the servant to take away the teapot, and to bring in another knife. He wondered vaguely what he was supposed to do with it. "I thought it likely you'd be here," said Mamie; "won't you sit down?" "I only had your letter this morning. So you are going away?" "I am going away. I bow, more or less gracefully, to the inevitable." "To bow gracefully to the inevitable is strong evidence of the histrionic gift," he said. "I came, I saw, I was conquered; please don't talk about it.... It was only settled yesterday. I sail on Saturday, you know." "Yes, you wrote me," murmured Heriot. "It's very sudden." "I'm crazy to do something, if only to confess myself beaten." "May I offer you a cup o' tea, Mr. Heriot?" asked Mrs. Baines. She always "offered" cups of tea, and was indebted to neighbours for their "hospitality." He thanked her. "You will miss your niece?" he said, declining a place at the table, to which she had moved a chair. "Yes, I'm sure!" she answered. "I say now it's a pity she didn't go with her father last October. Going in a vessel by herself, oh, dear! I say I wouldn't have got accustomed to having her with me if she'd gone with her father. Though that's neither here nor there!" "Yes, I think you may believe you'll be missed, Miss Cheriton," he said. "I say it's very odd she couldn't be an actress as she wanted," continued Mrs. Baines. "Seems so unfortunate with all the trouble that she took. But lor, my dear, we can't see what lies ahead of us, and perhaps it's all for the best! I say perhaps it's all for the best, Mr. Heriot, eh? Dear Mamie may be meant to do something different--writing, or such like; it's not for us to say." "Have you been writing again?" asked Heriot, turning to the girl. "A little," she said bitterly. "My vanity dies hard--and Aunt Lydia has encouraged me." Heriot looked a reproach; her tone hurt him, though he understood of what it was the outcome. "I should be glad if you had encouragement," he replied; "I think you need it now." But it hurt him, also, to discuss her pain in the presence of the intolerable third. He knew that if he remained to supper there would be a preparatory quarter of an hour in which he was alone with her; and it was for this quarter of an hour that he hungered, conscious that during the opening of the lobster-tin two destinies would be determined.