He was obsessed with his idea of accent, and the worldly value of superiority in speech. Ada’s first appeal to him, though she did not know it, was that she spoke well; her second was that she was her father’s daughter; her third, as she knew perfectly, was the helplessness which she used cunningly to flatter his masculine importance. She told him without a word that he was a strong, powerful man, and she a flower which he might pluck and wear. And she did the anemone business quite effectively. There was not much of Ada, and what there was was not remarkable, but she was fluffy and frilly and feminine in the feebler way. She had on something that was not silk but suggested the rustle of silk. After all, it was not Ada’s fault that it was not silk, or that her intimate underclothing was of flannelette; she could only use the opportunities she had, and they were few. But she had the prettiness, the rather silly and never lasting prettiness, which accompanies anæmia. It would not wear, and she knew that it would not wear. She was becoming desperate. Sam was sent by heaven. He thought so, too. Old Struggles read “Marcus Aurelius,” standing by his book-shelf, utterly forgetful of his guest, and the guest thought that Peter’s preoccupation was also instructed by heaven. It left him free for Ada. What he said to Ada and what Ada said to him were things of no importance: their serious conversation was not conducted by their tongues, but by their eyes. This is the sort of thing: Ada (her voice): Of course, I remember seeing you quite often in church, Mr. Branstone. (Her eyes): And you found favour in my sight. Sam (his voice): Naturally, I always saw you whenever I went. (His eyes): It was for you I went to church. Ada (her voice): I’m glad that you were able to come in to-night. I am often lonely in the evenings. Father is so wrapped up in his books. (Her eyes): Meeting you is the great moment of my life. I’m an unhappy princess in an ogre’s tower. Rescue me. Rescue me. Sam ( his voice): It was most kind of Mr. Struggles to ask me in for a talk about books. (His eyes): Books be damned. I’m fascinated by the sensuous rustle of your skirts, and I’m a hero sent to kiss the wistful look away from your pleading eyes. And so on. By the end of the evening, had the unsaid speeches or half of them been written down, Ada had evidence enough to have brought a breach of promise action against a recalcitrant Sam. Only Sam was not recalcitrant, but, on the contrary, ardent. It was, Ada congratulated herself, uncommonly good going for a first meeting. Peter emerged from “Marcus Aurelius” with a gentle smile which lighted up his undistinguished face. “Yes. Pagan but grand,” he said, quite unaware that half an hour had passed since he last spoke. “I’ll lend you this book, Branstone, and now”.--he glanced at the clock--“I’m afraid that I must turn you out. I’d no idea it was so late. How rapidly the time passes when one is talking about one’s books!”