The doorkeeper negatived the idea: “Wouldn’t be any good. She’s a-goin’ to Brighton by the 9.15, and won’t be back till Monday. Ast me to have a cab ready.” “I see. ’Safternoon I’m engaged. But you could give me her address, no doubt.” “Couldn’t. ’Tisn’t allowed.” “Nonsense. I’m her uncle. Right to know.” He produced silver in generous quantities, to which the doorkeeper succumbed. Miss Esme had a flat in Maida Vale, whither Clementine Rendall proceeded with all dispatch. In the taxi he reflected that he had set himself a foolish and a hopeless task. Even supposing he succeeded in buying off Miss Esme, nothing would have been achieved. To postpone a crisis is not to avert it. Accordingly he thrust his head from the window and addressed the driver: “Look here—I don’t want to go to Maida Vale. Drive me to Whatshisname Mansions—one of the turnings off Baker Street. I’ll rap on the glass to show you.” And as he subsided on the cushions again: “Heaven knows what I shall do when I get there.” He found a porter, who directed him to Wynne’s flat, and though assailed by many doubts, he beat a cheerful tattoo upon the knocker. “Hullo!” he exclaimed, when Eve opened the door. “Can you do with a visitor?” Without waiting for the answer he kissed her very cordially, and putting a friendly arm round her shoulders carried her off to the sitting-room. “As you never come and see me I came to see you,” he announced. “Well, how’s things?” “Oh, they are all right.” There was a restraint in her manner, which even his cheeriness was unable to break down. He could feel a sense of crisis in the atmosphere. “And Wynne?” “He’s out.” “Out to lunch?” “Yes.” “Brain storm!—we’ll go out too.” “You and I?” “As ever is! Get yer hat.” Eve hesitated. “I—” “Don’t tell me you haven’t a hat.” She laughed. “No; but it’s so long since I went out to lunch, probably I shouldn’t know how to behave.” “I never could,” he answered. “Eat peas with my knife, talk with my mouth full—never was such a fellar as me. Come on—lively does it. What ’ud you like to do afterwards?” “Anything.” “’Cos I’ve an idea—more’n that, I’ve the means of carrying it out. Listen to the program: Taxi; a sole and a cutlet at the Berkeley Grill, with just a little Rhine wine to help it along. Then what? I suggest a picture gallery, and you nod—I suggest a theatre, and you nod a bit more agreeably. Finally, I suggest a shopping excursion up Bond Street and down Regent Street, with a taxi rolling from door to door to carry the parcels; at this you nod vigorously—and perhaps you smile. You shall have a Crême de Cacao after your ice, and then you _will_ smile. The third and last proposal is carried unanimously, and before we start we make out a complete trousseau on the back of the menu card. Outside and inside we’ll get the lot. What do you say?” Eve leant over and touched his hand. “It sounds so lovely,” she said in a trembling voice; “but what do I want with a trousseau?”