'Are you the blackguard who has been making himself a nuisance about the place this last week and more?' Mr Holland's reply was mild in the extreme. 'I hope not.' 'You hope not? What do you mean by that? Don't you know you are?' 'I do not. I think the mistake, sir, is yours. May I ask who you are? You have your own ideas of how to greet the coming guest. Does Miss Bewicke keep you on the premises in order that you may mete out this kind of treatment to all her friends? You should be popular.' 'You're no friend of Miss Bewicke's. Don't try to bounce me, sir. I'll tell you in two words who I am. My name's Dumville--Bryan Dumville. Miss Bewicke is shortly to be my wife. As her affianced husband I consider myself entitled to protect her from the impertinent attentions of any twopenny-ha'penny bounder who chooses to think that because she condescends to appear upon the stage of a theatre he is at liberty to persecute her when and how he pleases.' 'Your sentiments do you credit, Mr Dumville.' 'Don't try to soft-soap me, sir. You can speak smoothly enough to me; but I will give you ten seconds, before I throw you down the stairs, to explain the meaning of your presence here.' 'I think, Mr Dumville, that, if I were you, I should make it a little more than ten seconds before, as you put it, you throw me down the stairs. I have come to see Miss Bewicke. I am afraid I can only explain myself to her.' 'No, you don't. That trick's been played before! It's stale; out you go!' 'Don't be an ass, sir!' 'Ass!' The epithet seemed to add fuel to the excitable Mr Dumville's flame. Throwing both arms round Mr Holland, trying to lift him off the ground, he proceeded to hustle him towards the door. Mr Holland, unwilling to be treated in quite such unceremonious fashion, displayed a capacity for resistance for which, possibly, the other was unprepared. There was every prospect of a delightful little bout of rough and tumble, when an interruption came. 'Bryan! what are you doing?' The interruption came from a young lady who was standing at the open door. CHAPTER IV MR HOLLAND FAILS A Small young lady, daintily fashioned, with a child-like face. She was charmingly dressed; a big feather boa was round her neck. As she stood there, in spite of the perfection of her attire, she looked more like a child than a woman. The men released each other. Mr Dumville explained. 'I was only going to throw the fellow down the stairs.' 'Is that all? And what has'--there was a little hesitation; then the word was softened by a smile--'the fellow done? And who may the fellow be?' 'I don't know. Some bounder, I suppose.' Mr Dumville seemed slightly disconcerted, as if the situation had not quite shaped as he had expected. Mr Holland's hat and stick had fallen to the floor. He stooped to pick them up. When he turned there came an exclamation from the little lady at the door. 'Guy!' 'Miss Bewicke.'