"Lor--I'm daft!" she thought, and then walked loudly into the room and deposited the tray on the table with a bang. "Here's breakfast, Mr. Dean. It's half past ten and missus says she can't keep it any longer!" He was awake in an instant. "Good heavens--I've overslept!" "I should think y'ave, Mr. Dean--that's being up 'o nights at them dances." John laughed. "Captain Fisher's been asking for you, Mr. Dean, He's very excited at breakfast about something in the papers. He says you're a remarkable gentleman. He was so excited." "But what about, Annie?" asked John stretching. "I don't know that, sir, but he wants to see you--come in drunk last night 'e did, and was 'orribly rude to Miss Simpson, on the landing. Said he hated damn gramophones grinding hymn tunes over his head. He apologised this morning and now says he's been grossly insulted because Miss Simpson didn't say anything, but gave him a temperance tract. The missus had to speak to them both and the Captain gave notice." "When does he go?" asked John, cracking his egg. The gossip of this caravanserai amused him. "He never does go; he always gives notice when Mrs. Perdie says what she thinks," replied Annie. "'Ow could he go anywhere else when all know 'is little 'abbits? But I've got a lot to do. The tea orl right, Mr. Dean?" she said, moving to the door. "Quite, Annie, thank you," he replied smiling at her. She closed the door on her hero with a resolute sniff. Drinking his tea, with a head clearing, John became reflective. This would really not do. Half of the morning gone, and he was due at the office at twelve! Then his mind went back to the night before, and to Tilly. It had all been rather hectic. Now he thought of it, he had been a decided fool, sitting there until the early morn, just holding in his arms and kissing a girl whom he had not known six hours, and who called him "a dear kid." Why had he behaved like that? He was lonely perhaps--and he had amused himself, that was all. He didn't, couldn't love her, and certainly she had never for a moment thought of him in that way. Turning to pour out some more tea, his eyes fell on a framed photograph on his dressing table. Yes, he had been a bounder--he couldn't tell _her_, she wouldn't understand, for even he did not. And yet, if he met Tilly again--he dismissed the idea deliberately, but remembered in doing so that he _would_ meet her again. There was a dance at the Studio next Friday. No,--he must not go there again. He slipped out of bed, and bath towel in hand, surveyed himself critically in the glass. Did he look a rake? Was dissipation stamping its marks upon him? But the vision in the mirror was that of youth, flawless in careless health and grace.