"I am afraid Miss Channing may think your declaration is premature, Mr. Yorke. You are scarcely in circumstances to keep yourself, let alone a wife." "That's just the misfortune of it," said candid Roland. "My pound a week does for me, and that's all. But I thought I'd let her know it was the power to serve her that was wanting, not the will. And now that it's said, I've done with the matter, and will wish you good night, Mr. Greatorex. Good night, Annabel. Hark at that squalling upstairs! I wonder the cats don't set up a chorus!" And Mr. Yorke went out in commotion. "He does not mean anything, sir," said Annabel Channing rather piteously to Mr. Greatorex. "I hope you will pardon him; he is just like a boy." "I am sure he does not mean any harm," was the lawyer's answer, his lips parting with a smile. "Never were two so much alike in good-hearted simplicity as he and his Uncle Carrick. Don't let his thoughtless words trouble you, child." Roland, clearing the streets at a few bounds, dashed home, into to Mrs. Jones's parlour, a light through the half-open door showing him that that lady was in it. It was past eleven: as a rule Mrs. Jones liked to keep early hours; but she appeared to have no intention of going to bed yet. "Are you working for a wager, Mrs. J.?" asked Roland, in allusion to the work in her nimble fingers. "I am working not to waste my time, Mr. Yorke, while I sit up for Alletha Rye. She is not in yet." "Out on the spree?" cried Roland. "She and sprees don't have much to do with each other," said Mrs. Jones. "There's a little child ill a few doors higher up, and Alletha's gone in to sit with her. But she ought to have been home by eleven. And how have you enjoyed yourself, Mr. Yorke?" "I say, Mrs. J., don't you go talking about enjoyment," spoke Roland resentfully. "It has been a miserable failure altogether. Not a soul there; the men and women howling like mad; and one's elbows crushed in the crowd. Catch me dressing for another!" Mrs. J. thought the answer slightly inconsistent. "If there was not a soul there, Mr. Yorke, how could your elbows get crushed?" "There was not a soul I cared for. Plenty of idiots. I don't say Hamish Channing and his wife are that, though. Clare Joliffe was there. Do you remember her at Helstonleigh?" "Clare? Let me see--Clare was the second: next to Mrs. Bede Greatorex. And very much like her." Roland nodded. "She and I were sitting on a sofa, nobody to be seen within earshot, and she began talking of the night Mr. Ollivera died. You should have heard her, Mrs. J.: she went on like anything at her sister, calling her selfish and false and deceitful, and other good names. All in a minute there was a crash of glass behind us, and we turned to see Bede Greatorex standing there. _I_ had not spoken treason against his wife, but I didn't like him to have seen me listening to it. It was an awkward situation. If I had a wife, I should not care to hear her abused."