Outside the house they were free. It looked so close and dark behind them that Maggie shivered a little and put her arm through her uncle's. "That's all right," he said, patting her hand. "We're going to enjoy ourselves." She looked up and saw Martin Warlock facing her. The unexpected meeting held both of them silent for a moment. To her it seemed that he had risen out of the very stones of the pavement, at her bidding, to make her evening wonderful. He looked so strong, so square, so solid after the phantom imaginations of the house that she had left, that the sight of him was a step straight into the heart of comfort and reassurance. "I was just coming," he said, looking at her, "to leave a note for Miss Cardinal--from my father--" "She's in," Maggie said. "Oh, it wasn't to bother her--only to leave the note. About some meeting, I think." "We're just going out. This is my uncle--Mr. Warlock." The two men shook hands. Mathew Cardinal smiled. His eyes closed, his greeting had an urgency in it as though he had suddenly made some discovery that gratified and amused him. "Very glad to meet you--very glad, indeed, sir. Any friend of my niece's. I know your father, sir; know him and admire him." They all turned down the street together. Uncle Mathew talked, and then, quite suddenly, stopping under a lamp-post as though within the circle of light his charm were stronger, he said: "I suppose, Mr. Warlock, you wouldn't do me the great, the extreme, honour of dining with myself and my niece at my humble little inn to-night? A little sudden--I hope you'll forgive the discourtesy--but knowing your father--" Martin looked straight into Maggie's eyes. "Oh, please do!" she said, her heart beating, as it seemed, against her eyes so that she dropped them. "Well--" he hesitated. "It's very good of you, Mr. Cardinal--very kind. As a matter of fact I was going to dine alone to-night--just a chop, you know, somewhere--if it's really not inconvenient I'll be delighted--" They walked on together. As they passed into Garrick Street, she knew that she had never in all her life been so glad to be with any one, that she had never so completely trusted any one, that she would like to be with him often, to look after him, perhaps, and to be looked after by him. Her feeling for him was almost sexless, because she had never thought, as most girls do, of love and the intrigue and coquetry of love. She was so simple as to be shameless, and at once, if he had asked her then in the street to marry him she would have said yes without hesitation or fear, or any analysis. She would like to look after him as well as herself--there were things she was sure that she could do for him--and she would be no burden to him because she intended, in any case, to lead her own life. She would simply lead it with a companion instead of without one.