The Nun deliberately disposed of a piece of plum cake and a sip of tea--the latter to wash the former down. "I don't fall in love myself," she observed, in a tone decided yet tolerant--as though she had said, "I don't take liqueurs myself--but if you like to risk it!" "You miss the best thing in life, miss," Jack cried. "And most of the worst too," added the Nun serenely. "Don't say it, miss. It don't come well from your pretty lips." "Have I put you on your mettle? I meant to, of course, Mr. Rock." Old Jack slapped his thigh, laughing immensely. Now wasn't this good--that she should be here, having tea, getting at him like that? It was a happy conjuncture, for the Nun was hardly less well pleased. She divided her life into two categories; one was "the mill," the other was "fun." The mill included making a hundred and eighty pounds by singing two silly songs eight times each every week, being much adored, and eating meals at that restaurant; "fun" meant anything rather different. Having tea with Jack Rock, the Meriton butcher, was rather different, and Miss Flower (as Seymour called her--almost the only person who did) was enjoying herself. "I should like to take a walk along the street before we go to the meeting, Jack." "Jack," casually dropped, with no more than a distant twinkle, finished Mr. Rock. "Your letter was pretty good, but you, miss--!" "I'm considered attractive on a postcard. It costs a penny," said the Nun, rising, fully refreshed, from the table. "Take me to the Lion, please. I must see that Seymour isn't dissatisfied. He's a gentleman by birth, you know, and a chauffeur by profession. So he rather alarms me, though his manner is always carefully indifferent." This remark of hers suddenly pleased the Nun. She gurgled; her own rare successes always gratified her--witness that somewhat stupid story about the two ladies and Tommy, told a long while ago. Accompanied by proud Jack Rock, she traversed Meriton High Street, greatly admiring the church, the grammar school, and that ancient and respectable hostelry, the Lion. Indeed she fell so much in love with the Lion that she questioned Jack as to the accommodation it provided, and was assured that it boasted a private sitting-room, with oak panelling and oak beams across the ceiling (always supposed to be irresistible attractions to London visitors), and bedrooms sufficient in case she and Miss Dutton should be minded to spend a part of their holiday there. Room also for a maid--and for Seymour and the motor. "It's rather a nice idea. I'll think it over," she said. Then it was time to think about the meeting; and Jack must come with her in the car, sit with her, and tell her all about it. "Oh yes, you must!" "I shall never hear the last of it, long as I live!" Jack protested, half in delight, half in a real shyness.