“I could inquire around,” he suggested. “I thought it wouldn’t likely be my aunt, but you said ‘anybody at all.’” “Never mind! What was it you wanted to ask me?” “Well, it’s something that’s rather important, but of course maybe you won’t think so, Muriel. Anyway, though, I hope you’ll think it’s _sort_ of important.” “But what _is_ it? Don’t hang fire so, Renfrew!” “I just wanted to lead up to it a little,” he explained mildly. “I’ve been thinking about getting a new car, and I wondered what sort you think I’d better look at. I didn’t want to get one you wouldn’t like.” Her lips parted to project that little series of sibilances commonly employed by adults to make children conscious of error. “Why on earth should you ask me?” she said sharply. “Is that your idea of an important question?” Renfrew’s susceptible complexion showed an increase of colour, but he was growing more and more accustomed to be used as a doormat, and he responded, without rancour: “I meant I hoped you’d sort of think it important, my not wanting to get one you wouldn’t like.” “Now, what do you mean by that?” “Well,” he said, “I mean I hoped you’d think it was important, my thinking it was important to ask you.” “I don’t,” she returned as a complete answer. “You say——” “I say I don’t,” she repeated. “I don’t. I don’t think it’s important. Isn’t that clear enough, Renfrew?” “Yes,” he said, and looked plaintively away from her. “I guess I don’t need any new car.” “Is there anything more this morning?” she was cruel enough to inquire. “No,” he answered, rising. “I guess that’s all.” Then, having received another of his almost daily rejections, he went away, leaving her to watch his departing figure with some exasperation, though she might well have admired him for his ingenuity: every day or two he invented a new way of proposing to her. In comparison, her refusals were commonplace, but of course she neither realized that nor cared to be brilliant for Renfrew; and also, this was a poor hour for him, when the electric presence of the black-and-white stranger was still vibrant in the very air. Muriel returned to her room and put the hydrangeas in a big silver vase; she moved them gently, with a touch both reverent and caressing, for they had borne a part in a fateful scene, and already she felt it possible that in the after years she would never see hydrangeas in blossom without remembering to-day and the First Meeting. Impulsively she went to her desk and wrote: