One day, and this was the beginning of the idea--not then conceived--Mr. Wriford asked Essie if he might take her for a walk. A Saturday evening was the day: a July evening, cool and still--very grateful and inviting after oppressive heat through morning and afternoon; a breeze come up with nightfall. There was no preparation class at Tower House on Saturdays. Mr. Wriford left his boys reading the books he had rummaged for them out of Mr. Pennyquick's library and came home to early supper. By eight o'clock Essie had washed up, and Mr. Wriford came to her where she was standing by the shop door enjoying the pleasant air. "Isn't it jolly, though?" said Essie, moving to give him place beside her in the entrance. "Yes, it's beautifully cool now," Mr. Wriford agreed. Several young couples--man and maid--were passing in one direction up the street. Mr. Wriford watched Essie's face as she watched them. He could see her eyes shining and those little twitches of her lips as she observed each separate swain and maid. With the slow passing of one pair, their hands clasped, walking very close together, she gave a little squirm and a little sound of merriment and turned to him. "Aren't they funny, though," said Essie, "courting!" Mr. Wriford asked her: "Where are they all going?" "Why, they're going to the Gardens, of course. There isn't half a jolly band plays there Saturday evenings." She was the prettiest little thing, as Mr. Wriford looked at her, standing there beside him. He liked her merry ways, so different from his own habitual quietude. It occurred to him that, apart from that walk to the station together some weeks before, he hardly ever had spoken to her out of her parents' company. Why not?--so pretty and jolly as she was. A sudden impulse came to him. He hesitated to speak it. She might resent the suggestion. He looked at her again--those funny little twitchings of her lips! "May I take you for a stroll, Essie?" he said. There was not the least reason to have hesitated. Essie's face showed her pleasure. She quite jumped from her leaning pose against the doorway. "Oh, that's fine!" cried Essie. "I'll just pop on my chapeau. I won't be half a tick." She was gone with the words, and he heard her running briskly up the stairs to her room and then very briskly down again and then in the parlour, crying: "Dad, me an' the lodger are going for a stroll in the Gardens. Sure you've got everything you want, Mother? Look, there's the new silk when you've finished that ball. Isn't it pretty, though!" and then the sound of a kiss for Mother and a kiss for Dad; and then coming to him, gaily swinging her gloves in a brown little hand, her eyes quite extraordinarily sparkling. "There you are!" cried Essie, and they started. "That wasn't long, was it? Why, some girls, you know, keep their young fellows waiting a treat." "Do they?" said Mr. Wriford, a trifle coldly.