And then he saw Kay, and on the instant his eyes widened into a goggling stare, his mouth fell open, his fingers clutched wildly at nothing, and he stood there, gaping. Kay met his stare with a defiant eye. In her present mood she disliked all young men, and there seemed nothing about this one to entitle him to exemption from her loathing. Rather, indeed, the reverse, for his appearance jarred upon her fastidious taste. If the Cohen Bros., of Covent Garden, have a fault, it is that they sometimes allow their clients to select clothes that are a shade too prismatic for anyone who is not at the same time purchasing a banjo and a straw hat with a crimson ribbon. Fittings take place in a dimly lit interior, with the result that suits destined to make phlegmatic horses shy in the open street seem in the shop to possess merely a rather pleasing vivacity. One of these Sam had bought, and it had been a blunder on his part. If he had intended to sing comic songs from a punt at Henley Regatta, he would have been suitably, even admirably, attired. But as a private gentleman he was a little on the bright side. He looked, in fact, like a bookmaker who won billiard tournaments, and Kay gazed upon him with repulsion. He, on the other hand, gazed at her with a stunned admiration. That photograph should have prepared him for something notable in the way of feminine beauty; but it seemed to him, as he raked her with eyes like small dinner plates, that it had been a libel, an outrage, a gross caricature. This girl before him was marvellous. Helen of Troy could have been nothing to her. He loved her shining eyes, unaware that they shone with loathing. He worshipped her rose-flushed cheeks, not knowing that they were flushed because he had been staring at her for thirty-three seconds without blinking and she was growing restive beneath his gaze. Mr. Wrenn was the first to speak. “Did you want anything?” he asked. “What?” said Sam. “Is there anything I can do for you?” “Eh?” Mr. Wrenn approached the matter from a fresh angle. “This is the office of Pyke’s _Home Companion_. I am Mr. Wrenn, the editor. Did you wish to see me?” “Who?” said Sam. At this point Kay turned to the window, and the withdrawal of her eyes had the effect of releasing Sam from his trance. He became aware that a grey-haired man, whom he dimly remembered having seen on his entry into the room some hours before, was addressing him. “I beg your pardon?” “You wished to see me?” “Yes,” said Sam; “yes, yes.” “What about?” asked Mr. Wrenn patiently. The directness and simplicity of the question seemed to clear Sam’s head. He recalled now what it was that had brought him here. “I’ve come over from America to join the staff of Pyke’s _Home Companion_.” “What?” “Lord Tilbury wants me to.” “Lord Tilbury?” “Yes; I’ve just been seeing him.” “But he has said nothing to me about this, Mr.----” “----Shotter. No, we only arranged it a moment ago.”