She said 'Good evening,' too, tying the score. And there was silence for a moment. Commiseration overcame Henry's shyness. 'You're looking tired,' he said. 'I feel tired.' She paused. 'I overdid it in the city.' 'It?' 'Dancing.' 'Oh, dancing. Did you dance much?' 'Yes; a great deal.' 'Ah!' A promising, even a dashing start. But how to continue? For the first time Henry regretted the steady determination of his methods with the _Encyclopaedia_. How pleasant if he could have been in a position to talk easily of Dancing. Then memory reminded him that, though he had not yet got up to Dancing, it was only a few weeks before that he had been reading of the Ballet. 'I don't dance myself,' he said, 'but I am fond of reading about it. Did you know that the word "ballet" incorporated three distinct modern words, "ballet", "ball", and "ballad", and that ballet-dancing was originally accompanied by singing?' It hit her. It had her weak. She looked at him with awe in her eyes. One might almost say that she gaped at Henry. 'I hardly know anything,' she said. 'The first descriptive ballet seen in London, England,' said Henry, quietly, 'was "The Tavern Bilkers", which was played at Drury Lane in--in seventeen--something.' 'Was it?' 'And the earliest modern ballet on record was that given by--by someone to celebrate the marriage of the Duke of Milan in 1489.' There was no doubt or hesitation about the date this time. It was grappled to his memory by hoops of steel owing to the singular coincidence of it being also his telephone number. He gave it out with a roll, and the girl's eyes widened. 'What an awful lot you know!' 'Oh, no,' said Henry, modestly. 'I read a great deal.' 'It must be splendid to know a lot,' she said, wistfully. 'I've never had time for reading. I've always wanted to. I think you're wonderful!' Henry's soul was expanding like a flower and purring like a well-tickled cat. Never in his life had he been admired by a woman. The sensation was intoxicating. Silence fell upon them. They started to walk back to the farm, warned by the distant ringing of a bell that supper was about to materialize. It was not a musical bell, but distance and the magic of this unusual moment lent it charm. The sun was setting. It threw a crimson carpet across the silvery lake. The air was very still. The creatures, unclassified by science, who might have been mistaken for mosquitoes had their presence been possible at Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm, were biting harder than ever. But Henry heeded them not. He did not even slap at them. They drank their fill of his blood and went away to put their friends on to this good thing; but for Henry they did not exist. Strange things were happening to him. And, lying awake that night in bed, he recognized the truth. He was in love.