“Me? Nothing. I’m leaving all that entirely to you. I’m completely in your hands.” She assumed her famous pathetic air, but in a modified degree. Mr. Priestley, she felt, not without reason, would not be quite so easily taken in by such means in the future as he had been in the past. To tell the truth, Laura was by this time not at all sure of her ground where Mr. Priestley was concerned. At times he was unexpectedly meek and amenable, at others still more unexpectedly the reverse. Ah, well, it all went to make life more interesting. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked in humble tones. Thus jerked up on to his pedestal of male superiority, Mr. Priestley regarded his companion attentively. What he would really like to do with her, he reflected wickedly, would be to kiss her—like last night, but with the benefit of that experience behind him; every little helps, so far as experience in kissing is concerned. For the first time in his life Mr. Priestley felt a strong desire to try his hand at this interesting art—or should one say his lips? He pulled himself together. That would never do. Certainly not. Last night had been a privileged occasion. Even a real husband hardly ever kisses his real wife at the breakfast-table; he complains about the bacon instead. “Well,” he said, dismissing these irrelevant reflections, “what about getting you back to your people, and—and all that?” Laura looked more pathetic than ever, though still careful not to overdo it. “I haven’t any people,” she said with quiet courage. “I’m—I’m alone in the world.” “God bless my soul!” observed Mr. Priestley, much touched. Laura was touched, just a little, also, by Mr. Priestley’s evident concern. He _was_ a dear, and it _was_ a shame to be hoodwinking him like this. She tried to console herself with the thought that, this time at any rate, she had spoken the truth—or something not at all unlike the truth. She was an orphan, and, except for George, she was pretty well alone in the world; and George and Annie had certainly one characteristic in common. “Of course,” Mr. Priestley continued in somewhat hesitating tones, “of course I don’t want to force your confidence, and if you don’t wish to tell me anything, naturally you won’t do so (I could hardly expect that you would, in the circumstances), but I’ve noticed that you haven’t mentioned your name yet. Unless, of course, it really is Spettigue?” “My name?” said Laura innocently. “Haven’t I really? No, it isn’t Spettigue. It’s—er—Merriman. Laura Merriman,” she added, adroitly turning this blank lie into a half-truth. “And mine’s Priestley,” beamed that gentleman. “Matthew Priestley; and my address is 148D Half Moon Street.”