That meal safely over (and an admirable affair it was; Barker had seen to that, though distinctly disappointed that no champagne was drunk with it to mark the occasion fittingly), they went back to the library, and there Mr. Priestley had a very bright idea indeed. This dear girl was likely to be on his hands for some time; why not make that period of real solid value to her, and at the same time increase her own value to himself? Why not, in short, teach her a little Latin? He pottered happily off to see if he could unearth the old Kennedy’s grammar of his schooldays. To Laura’s considerable regret, he succeeded. To Barker, lurking tactfully in his own fastness and picturing lurid scenes in progress in the study with all the strength of his somewhat one-sided imagination, the truth regarding the next two hours would have been a poignant disappointment; there is very little luridness in the conjugation of _mensa_. Laura spent a dull evening. At half-past ten, feeling that she had had enough Latin to last her for several years, she announced her intention of going to bed, resisting all Mr. Priestley’s efforts to dissuade her. “I’m very tired,” she said, not without truth, holding out a slim hand. “Good-night, Uncle Matthew.” “Good-night, then Niece Laura,” beamed Mr. Priestley, taking the hand and forgetting apparently to release it again. Laura could hardly go to bed without her hand; she lingered. They smiled at each other. “Oh, well,” thought Laura, “why not? He deserves something, the funny old dear, and he does seem to enjoy it so.” She held up her cheek. “Good-night, dear, kind Uncle Matthew,” she said softly. “God bless my soul!” observed Mr. Priestley, discovering suddenly that there are advantages in being an uncle after all. “Besides, it isn’t the first time,” continued Laura’s thoughts as she went off to her bed and a pair of Mr. Priestley’s pyjamas; “and he certainly had that kissing look in his eye. Oh, well, I owe him that much, I suppose.” But not for one moment did she admit that the very simple reason why she had held up her face was that, for the first time in her life, she actually wanted to be kissed. A simple reason is so very dull, of course, when there is a complicated one to take its place. Mr. Priestley rang for his night-cap and settled himself in his chair again feeling exactly ten years younger than when he had last performed the same action forty-eight hours ago. If Laura let him kiss her good-night, she ought by all logic to let him kiss her good-morning. If he kissed her once each night and once each morning, and she stayed in his rooms say, two months—no, three months at least for safety, then he could look forward to . . . thirty multiplied by three multiplied by two. . . . His thoughts ran happily on; very happily.