During his walk along the cliffs Michael played with this idea. By the time he went to bed his mind was full of this girl, and it was certainly thrilling to come down to breakfast next morning and see what blouse she was wearing. Mrs. Fane always had breakfast in her room, so Michael was free to watch this new interest over the cricket matches in The Sportsman. He grew almost jealous of the plates and forks and cups which existed so intimately upon her table, and he derived a sentimental pleasure from the thought that nothing was more likely than that to-morrow there would be an exchange of cups between his table and hers. He conceived the idea of chipping a piece out of his own cup and watching every morning on which table it would be laid, until it reached her. At lunch Michael, as nonchalantly as he could speak, asked his mother whether she did not think the pretty girl dressed rather well. “Very provincial,” Mrs. Fane judged. “But prettily, I think,” persisted Michael. “And she wears a different dress every day.” “Do you want to know her?” asked Mrs. Fane. “Oh, mother, of course not,” said Michael, blushing hotly. “I dare say they’re very pleasant people,” Mrs. Fane remarked. “I’ll speak to them after lunch, and tell them how anxious you are to make their acquaintance.” “I say, mother,” Michael protested. “Oh, no, don’t, mother. I really don’t want to know them.” Mrs. Fane smiled at him, and told him not to be a foolish boy. After lunch, in her own gracious and distinguished manner which Michael always admired, Mrs. Fane spoke to the two sisters and presently beckoned to Michael who crossed the room, feeling rather as if he were going in to bat first for his side. “I don’t think I know your name,” said Mrs. Fane to the elder sister. “McDonnell—Norah McDonnell, and this is my sister Kathleen.” “Scotch?” asked Mrs. Fane vaguely and pleasantly. “No, Irish,” contradicted the younger sister. “At least by extraction. McDonnell is an Irish name. But we live in Burton-on-Trent. Father and mother are coming down later on.” She spoke with the jerky speech of the Midlands, and Michael rather wished she did not come from Burton-on-Trent, not on his own account, but because his mother would be able to point out to him how right she had been about their provincialism. “Are you going anywhere this evening?” Michael managed to ask at last. “I suppose we shall go on the pier. We usually go on the pier. Eh, but it’s rather dull in Bournemouth. I like Llandudno better. Llandudno’s fine,” said the elder Miss McDonnell with fervour. Mrs. Fane came to the rescue of an awkward conversation by asking the Miss McDonnells if they would take pity on her son and invite him to accompany them. And so it was arranged.