When Michael met Kathleen by the side-gate of the Winter Gardens, and received his bicycle back from Trimble, he suddenly wondered whether Kathleen had told her betrothed that another had held her hand. Michael rather hoped she had, and that the news of it had made Trimble jealous. Trimble, however, seemed particularly pleased with himself, and invited Michael to spend the afternoon with him, which Michael promised to do, if his mother did not want his company. “Well, did you have a decent morning?” Michael enquired of Kathleen, as together they rode towards their hotel. “Oh, we had a grand time; we sat down where you and me sat the other day.” Michael nearly mounted the pavement at this news, and looked very gloomy. “What’s the matter?” Kathleen pursued. “You’re not put out, are you?” “Oh, no, not at all,” said Michael sardonically. “All the same, I think you might have turned off and gone another road. I sat and thought of you all the morning. But I don’t mind really,” he added, remembering that at any rate for Kathleen he must remain that chivalrous and selfless being which had been created by the loan of a bicycle. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. I always want you to be happy. All my life I shall want that.” Michael was surprized to find how much more eloquent he was in the throes of disappointment than he had ever been through the prompting of passion. He wished that the hotel were not already in sight, for he felt that he could easily say much more about his renunciation, and indeed he made up his mind to do so at the first opportunity. In the afternoon he told his mother he was going to pay a visit to Father Moneypenny. He did not tell her about Trimble, because he feared her teazing; although he tried to deceive himself that the lie was due to his loyalty to Kathleen. “What shall we do?” asked Trimble. “Shall we toddle round to the Shades and have a drink?” “Just as you like,” Michael said. “Well, I’m on for a drink. It’s easier to talk down at the Shades than in here.” Michael wondered why, but he accepted a cigar, and with Trimble sought the speech-compelling Shades. “It’s like this,” Trimble began, when they were seated on the worn leather of the corner lounge. “I took a fancy to you right off. Eh, I’m from the North, and I may be a bit blunt, but by gum I liked you, and that’s how it is. Yes. I’m going to talk to you the same as I might to my own brother, only I haven’t got one.” Michael looked a little apprehensive of the sack of confidences that would presently be emptied over his head, and, seeking perhaps to turn Trimble from his intention, asked him to guess his age. “Well, I suppose you’re anything from twenty-two to twenty-three.” Michael choked over his lemon-and-dash before he announced grimly that he was seventeen.