'Why, it's quite late,' she said, slowly; 'the shop will be shut up long ago.' 'I don't care--I don't care a bit,' cried Lucy. 'One can't think about what's proper. I'm just going straight away.' And she got up feverishly, and put on her hat again. 'Why can't you tell father and send him? He's downstairs in the reading-room,' said Dora. 'I'll go myself, Dora, thank you,' said Lucy, with an obstinate toss of her head, as she stood before the old mirror over the mantelpiece. 'I dare say you think I'm a very bold girl. It don't matter.' Then for a minute she became absorbed in putting one side of her hair straight. Dora, from behind, sat looking at her, needle in hand. The gaslight fell on her pale, disturbed face, showed for an instant a sort of convulsion pass across it which Lucy did not see. Then she drew her hand along her eyes, with a low, quivering breath, and went back to her work. As Lucy opened the door, however, a movement of anxiety, of conscience, rose in Dora. 'Lucy, shall I go with you?' 'Oh, no,' said Lucy, impatiently. 'I know what's what, thank you, Dora. I'll take care of myself. Perhaps I'll come back and tell you what he says.' And she closed the door behind her. Dora did not move from her work; but her hand trembled so that she made several false stitches and had to undo them. Meanwhile Lucy sped along across Market Street and through St. Ann's Square. Her blood was up, and she could have done anything, braved anybody, to defeat her father and win a smile from David Grieve. Yet, as she entered Potter Street, she began to quake a little. The street was narrow and dark. On one side the older houses had been long ago pulled down and replaced by tall warehouses, which at night were a black and towering mass, without a light anywhere. The few shops opposite closed early, for in the office quarter of Manchester there is very little doing after office hours, when the tide of life ebbs outwards. Lucy looked for No. 15, her heart beating fast. There was a light in the first floor, but the shop-front was altogether dark. She crossed the street, and, lifting a shaking hand, rang the bell of the very narrow side door. Instantly there were sounds inside--a step--and David stood on the threshold. He stared in amazement at his unwonted visitor. 'Oh, Mr. Grieve--please--I've got something to tell you. Oh, no, I won't come in--we can stand here, please, out of the wind. But father's going to buy this place over your head, and I thought I'd better come and tell you. He'll be pretty mad if he thinks I've let out; but I don't care.' She was leaning against the wall of the passage, and David could just see the defiance and agitation on her face by the light of the gas-lamp outside. He himself gave a low whistle. 'Well, that's rather strong, isn't it, Miss Purcell?' 'It's mean--it's abominable,' she cried. 'I vowed I'd stop it. But I don't know what he'll do to me--kill me, most likely.'