At half-past six he went to his room and got into a fairly good suit of clothes. He’d never given anything that could be called “thought” to what he wore, further than to have it clean, and so far as possible not torn or otherwise mutilated. Old Mr. Cripps, during the time the two were living together, had frequently taken him to his own tailor and ordered clothing for him in a most generous way. Since the old man’s death, however, Haworth had been to that place only once, on which occasion he had asked them to make him two suits, one thin, the other thick. But when they began to unroll the vast cylinders of “imported goods” before him, he had started for the door, muttering quite audibly that it was their business to find the stuff to make them of, not his. Edith came down in a charming slip of a dress they’d found. It had needed no alteration, so she could have it for that evening. Haworth, waiting in the living room, fixed his eyes on her in calm astonishment. He would hardly have known her. It wasn’t the dress alone, but everything, including herself. She found herself standing still just inside the door, his steadfast gaze of amazement and admiration acting like an automatic signal set against her. “Please sit here,” he said, after a moment of regarding her in silence, and indicating the big chair she’d been sitting in the day before when he lighted the fire. She looked up at him from the depths of the chair with wide-eyed questioning. After he’d stood looking at her a moment or two with a peculiar expression, he said, suddenly: “Come along—let’s have dinner!” And she never got the answer—anyway not then—to her optical interrogation points. Which was, that he wanted to see her feet in their ravishing new slippers, just where he’d seen them the day before in the poor little worn and downtrodden shoes. And there they were, these two by themselves, at dinner. Mr. Augustus Findlay, running true to form (about the only thing to which he did), failed to put in an appearance. He was otherwise engaged in low-lived haunts, with a twenty-dollar bill. And there they were again, these two, sitting by the fire in the evening, quietly talking and occasionally silent for a space; going down to see his shop; then each apparently reading a book—though neither of them read a single word. And so it went on for a number of days. Everything seemed to be against them—pushing them toward the edge of the precipice. Even the maid Hulda, who must have seen the danger, was assisting their approach to it instead of trying to hold them back; for which questionable behavior her opinion of Mr. Findlay was largely responsible, her sympathetic attitude toward what is roughly referred to as “romance” perhaps accounting for the rest. * * * * * But something shortly happened that not only showed them where they were going, but flashed them an idea of the distance they’d gone.