So the talk drifted on, sometimes safely, sometimes through tortuous channels that threatened at any moment to over-turn their little shell of convention. But no such catastrophe occurred, and when, at length, Mrs. Hardy began to show signs of weariness, Irene served coffee and cake, and the two men, taking that as an intimation that their welcome had run down, but would re-wind itself if not too continually drawn upon, left the house together. On their way they agreed that it was a very beautiful night. Dave turned the situation over in his mind with some impatience. Irene had now been in the city for several weeks, and he had had opportunity for scarce a dozen personal words with her. Was he to be baulked by such an insufferable chaperonage as it seemed the purpose of Mrs. Hardy and Conward to establish over his love affair? No. In the act of undressing he told himself No, suiting to the word such vigour of behaviour that in the morning he found his shoes at opposite corners of the room. No! He who, as a boy, had not hesitated to assert a sort of proprietorship over Irene, would not hesitate now-- He was keyed to the heroic. Several days passed without any word from Irene, and he had almost made up his mind to attempt another telephone appointment, when he met her, quite accidentally, in the street. It was a beautiful afternoon; warm, but not hot, with a fresh breeze from the mountains flowing through the unclouded heavens, and a radiant sun pouring down upon all. But Irene looked more radiant still. She had been shopping, she said. The duty of household purchases fell mainly upon her. Her mother rested in the afternoons---- "How about a cup of tea?" said Dave. "And a thin sandwich? And a delicate morsel of cake? One can always count on thin sandwiches and delicate morsels of cake. Their function is purely a social one, having no relation to the physical requirements." "I should be very glad," said Irene. They found a quiet tea-room. When they were seated Dave, without preliminaries, plunged into the subject nearest his heart. "I have been wanting an opportunity to talk to you--wanting it for weeks," he said. "But it always seemed----" "Always seemed that you were thwarted," Irene completed his thought. "You didn't disguise your annoyance very well the other night." "Do you blame me for being annoyed?" "No. But I rather blame you for showing it. You see, I was annoyed too." "Then you had nothing to do with--with bringing about the situation that existed?" "Certainly not. Surely you do not think that I would--that I would----" "I beg your pardon, Reenie," said Dave, contritely. "I should have known better. But it seemed such a strange coincidence." She was toying with her cup, and for once her eyes avoided him. "You should hardly think, Dave," she ventured,--"you should hardly conclude that--what has been, you know, gives you the right--entitles you----"