Once more the flame of anger flickered in his heart. As he thought it over, his indignation grew. He pictured her, as he loved best to do, in the quiet neat simplicity of that brown dress of hers, with her clear, trustful eyes. And they had turned her out, had they, to what, he should like to know? Good God, and this was in England to-day! He saw Mr. Thornton, rotund, bald, very respectable, and realised that if, at bottom, he was as bigoted a Protestant as any of them, business was mixed up with religion. The man had never really loved his daughter, Paul thought, he, with his commercial soul, his respectable tradesman's boot-licking servility, his front pew in the side aisle never empty on a Sunday. And as he thought of it all, he came to a resolution. He gripped his stick more firmly and turned off to Edward Street. A girl assistant came forward. Paul did not know her. Could he see Mr. Thornton? She would enquire. What name? "Mr. Kestern," said Paul, a little grimly. A flutter of surprise and then of understanding crossed the girl's face. Would he sit down. She would tell Mr. Thornton. She disappeared behind a screen and opened a door. Paul, looking round the suburbanly-fashionable shop, knew that she stood in front of a solid, highly polished desk in that little inner sanctum, and wondered if she would say more than his name. If not, it would be his father who would be expected. The immediate appearance of Mr. Thornton round the screen, bowing, smiling, rubbing his hands, showed him that she had not. He walked forward. As the photographer started in surprise, he spoke. "How do you do, Mr. Thornton? I've come to ask if I may see Edith." (Better to put it that way: the man would not know how much he had been told.) Edith's father stood and looked at him in amazement. Paul, out of the corner of his eye, saw the interested friendly smile of the girl behind. Possibly Mr. Thornton saw it reflected in the young man's face, for his own flushed angrily. He stumbled for words. "You, you----" he spluttered. "How dare you, sir?" Paul surveyed him coolly. He was sure of his ground now. "Really, Mr. Thornton..." he said. "Your daughter and I were very good friends in the Mission, and I have not seen her for some time." "Look here," burst out the man, "you may be a clergyman's son, and you may think to come it over me, but I tell you you were responsible--I know you were responsible. Broke her mother's 'eart, she has, and you----" He realised suddenly that he was in the shop. Anyone might come in. The girl was there. He took a grip of himself and prepared for a more cold-blooded battle. "Ah," he said conventionally, "I'm very glad you've called. Will you please to come inside a moment." Paul entered the lion's den.