“Hullo, dear!” said the lady, with a winning smile. Mr. Priestley started violently and plunged back into the station behind him like a rabbit into its burrow. The lady, diagnosing this time that she had failed to please, passed on. Mr. Priestley emerged again, properly ashamed of himself. “That,” observed Mr. Priestley to himself, with considerable severity, “was the action of a snail. I ought to have returned that woman’s greeting and taken her off to some place of refreshment. A glass of port would probably have purchased her story, and I should have undergone an interesting and unprecedented experience. I should, in fact, as Pat counselled me, have had an Adventure. Never mind, the opportunity will probably occur again.” Which, as Mr. Priestley was communing with himself in the Piccadilly entrance of the Underground Railway, was no less than the truth. As even Mr. Priestley had surmised, he had not long to wait. Almost the next moment a voice spoke at his elbow—a pleasantly modulated feminine voice this time, though not altogether free from irritation. “Well, here you are at _last_!” said the voice. “I was beginning to think you never were coming. I’ve been waiting round about here for nearly twenty minutes.” This time Mr. Priestley had better command of himself. He did not start violently, he did not bolt for the lift like a mole for its hill, he did not even pause to reflect upon what he was doing. He just turned round and gazed with interest at the pretty, flower-like face that was upturned to his and the innocent blue eyes, just clouded with what must have been pardonable exasperation. Then he smiled benignly. Some sage has already put it upon record that circumstances alter cases. He did not add that some circumstances can take a case, jump on it, turn it inside out, roll it out flat and then build it up backwards; yet this is what his own circumstances were doing for Mr. Priestley’s case. A week ago Mr. Priestley would have raised his hat, turned a bright brick-red and stammered out to the owner of the trusting, flower-like face the error of her ways. As it was he descended blithely to such depths of duplicity as at that remote time he would have deemed incredible. This was his chance! This was to the life-stories of improper ladies over glasses of port as that burgundy had been to red ink! This was an ADVENTURE not merely with a capital “A” but in block letters a mile high! This was Heaven-sent Opportunity! Wherein Mr. Priestley erred. It was not Heaven who had sent him the opportunity, but a much more unscrupulous agency. “I’m exceedingly sorry I’m so late,” replied the adventurous Mr. Priestley, and continued to beam. Limpet indeed!