The next morning Clive and his uncle breakfasted together as usual in the parlour behind, the chemist's shop. 'Uncle,' said Clive brusquely, when the meal was nearly finished, 'I'd better tell you that I've proposed to Eva Brunt.' Old George Timmis lowered the _Manchester Guardian_ and gazed at Clive over his steel-rimmed spectacles. 'She is a good girl,' he remarked; 'she will make you a good wife. Have you spoken to her father?' 'That's the point. I saw him last night, and I'll tell you what he said. These were his words: "You can marry my daughter, Mr. Timmis, when your uncle agrees to part with his shop!"' 'That I shall never do, nephew,' said the aged patriarch quietly and deliberately. 'Of course you won't, uncle. I shouldn't think of suggesting it. I'm merely telling you what he said.' Clive laughed harshly. 'Why,' he added, 'the man must be mad!' 'What did the young woman say to that?' his uncle inquired. Clive frowned. 'I didn't see her last night,' he said. 'I didn't ask to see her. I was too angry.' Just then the post arrived, and there was a letter for Clive, which he read and put carefully in his waistcoat pocket. 'Eva writes asking me to go to Pireford to-night,' he said, after a pause. 'I'll soon settle it, depend on that. If Ezra Brunt refuses his consent, so much the worse for him. I wonder whether he actually imagines that a grown man and a grown woman are to be.... Ah well, I can't talk about it! It's too silly. I'll be off to the works.' When Clive reached Pireford that night, Eva herself opened the door to him. She was wearing a gray frock, and over it a large white apron, perfectly plain. 'My girls are both out to-night,' she said, 'and I was making some puffs for the sewing-meeting tea. Come into the breakfast-room.... This way,' she added, guiding him. He had entered the house on the previous night for the first time. She spoke hurriedly, and, instead of stopping in the breakfast-room, wandered uncertainly through it into the greenhouse, to which it gave access by means of a French window. In the dark, confined space, amid the close-packed blossoms, they stood together. She bent down to smell at a musk-plant. He took her hand and drew her soft and yielding form towards him and kissed her warm face. 'Oh, Clive!' she said. 'Whatever are we to do?' 'Do?' he replied, enchanted by her instinctive feminine surrender and reliance upon him, which seemed the more precious in that creature so proud and reserved to all others. 'Do! Where is your father?' 'Reading the _Signal_ in the dining-room.' Every business man in the Five Towns reads the _Staffordshire Signal_ from beginning to end every night. 'I will see him. Of course he is your father; but I will just tell him--as decently as I can--that neither you nor I will stand this nonsense.' 'You mustn't--you mustn't see him.' 'Why not?' 'It will only lead to unpleasantness.' 'That can't be helped.'