Laura approved of this programme, and intimated as much with some warmth. She had never felt much drawn towards red flannel before, but just at that moment red flannel appeared the ideal material for the manufacture of night-gowns. Nice, warm, dry, _beautiful_ red flannel! What could a girl want more? Besides, she was not sorry to put off her talk with Mr. Priestley till the morning. It would give her time to collect her thoughts, and Laura felt that her thoughts needed a good deal of collecting. It was nice of Mr. Priestley to take it so naturally for granted that he should spend the night in the kitchen. How she had misjudged that blameless man! “And I wonder if the landlady could run to a dressing-gown?” said the blameless man, gazing thoughtfully at the now empty handcuff dangling from his left wrist. It wore something of a wistful air. So did Mr. Priestley. “I’ll ask her,” Laura said, jumping to her feet. She went to the door and made the noises of a person requiring the presence of her landlady, while Mr. Priestley hastily tucked his handcuff up his coat-sleeve. The landlady was enchanted with the idea of producing dressing-gowns. She produced two, one with pride and one with apologies. The first was of blue flannel trimmed with white lace; the other was of fairly pink flannel trimmed with fairly white lace. Her husband, it appeared, dispensed with such formalities as dressing-gowns. By common female consent the pink dressing-gown was allotted to Mr. Priestley. He clutched it, and snatched up his night-shirt. “I shall be back, my dear,” he said with dignity, “in about five minutes.” He had not the faintest notion how long a girl takes to get herself out of wet clothes and into a red flannel night-gown, but five minutes seemed a liberal estimate. “Lor’, sir,” remarked the landlady with frank astonishment, “you’re not going somewhere else to change your clothes, surely? Not after I’ve lighted this fire for you and all?” “Five minutes!” squeaked Laura at the same time. “But—but you’re not coming back _here_, are you?” Mr. Priestley looked from one to the other uneasily. The landlady eyed them both with undisguised surprise. Laura, realising that she had not said quite the right thing so far as the landlady was concerned, began to blush gently, swore silently at herself for doing so, and blushed hotly. The landlady’s kindly eye grew less kindly; it clouded with suspicion. The demeanour of either Laura or Mr. Priestley at that moment would have roused suspicion in a blind woman; their very silence was eloquent. “I suppose,” said the landlady very slowly, “that you two _are_ married, if you don’t mind my asking?” “Really!” spluttered Mr. Priestley, trying hard to simulate anger. “Really, this is preposterous. I won’t——” “Seeing,” pursued the landlady in the same tones, her eyes now glued to Laura’s left hand, “seeing, I mean, as the lady isn’t wearing no ring nor _anything_!”