Woman, it could not too often be reiterated, was the Plaything of Man----but not of young Ellerton, by the way. Why should any sensible man be obsessed by one more than another of these toys? Let them keep in their places. Dashed pretty she was! Taking little face, dandy little figure, hands and feet _it_.... Still, if she thought that he, with all his experience, was going to say that Miss Olwen Howel-Jones was the best-looking girl he'd ever struck, she had another guess coming to her. Casual little ways she had! Those spoilt her. Pursing up her mouth----which was as red as if she shoved on carmine by the stick every five minutes, though he could see she didn't. It would sairrrrrrrrve her jolly well right if a man (not young Ellerton) were to catch ahold of her and kiss her good and hard a couple of dozen times running and then leave her, having had all he wanted of her. That other maddening habit of hers, too; looking 'way over a man's shoulder when he was speaking to her! Refusing to meet his eyes ... though she could look straight enough into young Ellerton's.... What colour _were_ her eyes when all was said: brown, green, or hazel? He had arrived at this point by the time that the rushing by of cars began to be heard up the Strand, down the Embankment and along every street within earshot; cars containing joyously important children in Scout's kit who "_woke to find that Noise was Duty_," and who now roused London's echoes with their bugle calls of two long notes: "_All clear----! All----clear!_" Yes; the raid was over. Captain Ross of the Honeycomb found himself drawing a long breath and realizing that he did most bitterly resent these raids on account of the women that he knew who were in the danger zone. That child Olwen, now; had she been frightened? Very likely indeed. Scared to death, no doubt. Poor wee girl!... With the return to the thought of her, there suddenly stirred within him a feeling that lay so deep down and under so many other mere immediate things that he seldom allowed himself the chance of leisure to delve towards it.... It was----how express it? A gentle, reverent unspoilt tenderness. It was That which makes the difference in the ingrainedly sentimental mind of Man, between Woman----and his own women-folk. The key to the hearts of these finest judges of women in Europe is to be found held in the hands of a mother, a wife, or (most surely) of a baby-daughter.... This particular Scot had denied _in toto_ that that chit of a Welsh girl could ever have part or lot in any of his jealously-secret dreams. But denied it he had; yes! Already he was so far gone as all that. Therefore it will be seen that he had reached the moment when a man pulls himself resolutely together and determines that having gone so far, he will go no further. The moment had arrived when he told himself that, having taken all things into consideration, he had done with the girl. Yes; he had done with this Olwen.