‘Never. Of course not.’ ‘Then--then--’ he faltered, unable to say what he wished. ‘But I shall see you again, of course,’ said Adrienne, quickly. ‘You will come again. My uncle wishes you to come again. And you will--yes?’ ‘You are sure it wouldn’t be an intrusion?’ said Myles, doubtfully. ‘Very far from an intrusion,’ she answered. ‘You will be welcome--and you will be expected until you come.’ With which, and with a warm hand-shake she disappeared. Myles did not pause to-night to contemplate the street, or to look out for the light in the window. He took the shortest and straightest course into the town again, went direct to Bold Street, and stopped before the club. There was a light in the vestibule of that building, and a waiter stood at the door surveying the passers by, and feeling no doubt that he looked negatively fascinating. ‘Is Mr. Frederick Spenceley here?’ inquired Myles, quietly and politely. ‘Mr. Frederick Spenceley?’ repeated the waiter, while an expression of ill-humour crossed his face. ‘I rather think he is, and in a deuce of a temper too. If Mr. Frederick Spenceley keeps on coming here, I shan’t stay. Well, do you want to see him?’ ‘I should like just to speak to him,’ said Myles, ever calmly and politely; his one object being to penetrate to Mr. Spenceley’s presence, content to pocket his burning fury until he was face to face with him. Mr. Spenceley evidently enjoyed little favour in the eyes of the waiter, or the latter would hardly have allowed a working-man to penetrate into that _sanctum sanctorum_, the billiard-room. As it was, he said, ‘Well, if you go straight ahead upstairs, you’ll find him in the billiard-room, I expect. But perhaps you want to see him down here?’ ‘Oh no! I can go to him. Upstairs, you say?’ The waiter nodded; and Myles obeying his direction, found himself on the first landing, opposite a door inscribed ‘Billiards.’ He knocked, but no reply was given, which was accounted for by the loud and overpowering voice of Frederick Spenceley, whose accents drowned all other sounds. Myles opened the door, and walked into the room, which was like most other billiard-rooms: four green-shaded lights above the table; the marker, standing in his place, looking sulky--he too having received his share of the compliments of Mr. Spenceley that evening. (It was a significant fact, that not one of Frederick Spenceley’s inferiors would have felt anything but pleasure in his degradation or humiliation.) There was Charlie Saunders, the insignificant-looking boy whose pretty pink-and-white face was now a good deal flushed, and who laughed foolishly now and then in high-pitched voice. Opposite, with his burly back towards the door, was Frederick Spenceley, shouting very loudly, and freely expressing his opinion that the cloth was a confounded bad one, and that the table was not level.