So the letter was written and posted, and Paul was at breakfast next morning when Strether came in with it. He flung himself into an arm-chair and tossed the note on the table. "Who wrote that?" he demanded savagely, his limbs sprawling all over the place. Paul, feigning surprise, opened it. "'Elsie Dawson,'" he read, as one bewildered. "Great Scott, Gussie, I shouldn't have thought you'd have had a correspondence with girls! Why, she's the girl we met yesterday! Good Lord--'Will you meet me to-night at 9.30 on Jesus Bridge?' What are you going to do? My aunt, fancy her having the cheek!" Strether kicked out at a footstool. "I don't know the girl," he exclaimed bitterly. For the life of him, Paul couldn't help playing up to the game now that the victim had risen so well. He got up and went over to the fire. "But look here," he said seriously, "she's seen you and she's plainly after you. Well, hang it all, man, we don't want her sort hanging about whenever we go down to the river. You'd better meet her once and choke her off. Take Donaldson with you; he'll take her off your hands." Strether growled, muttered, and kicked out at the footstool again, the while Paul, intensely amused but outwardly serious, gathered at last that he was cursing Donaldson, declining to tell that worthy a thing about the letter, and demanding how the girl could have learnt his name. "She overheard Donaldson saying it, I expect," invented the resourceful Paul. He was cut short by the noise on the stair that usually heralded that gentleman's approach. "Give me the letter," said Strether hurriedly, "and don't say anything." "If you go, come in here afterwards and tell me what happens," replied Paul quickly, tossing it him. The other nodded. "Has he got it?" demanded Donaldson eagerly, as soon as they were alone at the boathouse that afternoon. Paul nodded. "Oh my holy aunt, what a spree! What did he say? What's he going to do?" Paul explained, smiling. "You're not to know. I kidded him all right, and I think he's going to-night." "Lor! what an ass! Well, we'll be there anyway. Wonder if Manning would care to come?" "Don't ask him," said Paul. "After all Gussie's our pal, and Manning's not our year. I wish he knew nothing about it." Donaldson stared. "He's a damned good sport, anyway." "May be," retorted Paul. "So's old Gussie, if it comes to that." "All right," conceded the other. "But we'll go. We'll go out at nine. It'll need a bit of reconnoitring."