“Mr. Dandy Chater”—the voice of this girl of about eighteen was imperious, and she was evidently not a person to be trifled with—“I want to know what you mean by it?” The situation was becoming something more than merely humorous. Philip Chater pushed back his hat, and gazed at her in perplexity; and, indeed, it must be admitted that, to be accosted in this fashion by a young lady, of whose name he was entirely ignorant, was enough to try the stoutest nerves. However, remembering all that was at stake, and seeing in this girl one of a very different stamp to the woman from whom he had just parted, he asked, with what carelessness he might— “And what’s the matter with _you_?” The girl stamped her foot, and began to twist the lace scarf she wore petulantly in her hands. “As if you didn’t know!” she exclaimed, passionately. “I’ve watched you, since you walked out of church—and I know why you went _there_—for the first time since you were christened, I should think. Surely, you remember all you said to me last week—when”—the little hands were very busy with the lace scarf at this point—“when you kissed me.” Philip Chater rose hurriedly to his feet; advanced to the girl, and took her by the shoulders. “Look here, my dear,” he said—and his voice was really very plaintive—“if I kissed you, I’m very sorry—I mean—I ought not to have done it. In fact, there are a lot of things I’ve done in the past—and I’ve left them behind. You’re a very pretty girl—and I’m quite sure you’re a good girl; but you’d better not have anything more to do with me. It’s only too evident that I’m a bad lot. I think—in fact I’m quite sure—you’d better go home.” He turned away, and walked further into the wood. Looking back, after going a little way, he saw her crouched down upon the ground, weeping as if her heart would break. Hastily consigning the late Dandy Chater’s love-affairs to a region where cynics assert they have their birth, he retraced his steps, and raised the girl from the ground. She was very pretty, and seemed so much a child that the man tenderly patted her shoulder, in an endeavour to comfort her. “There—don’t cry, little one. I know I’ve been a brute—or, at least, I suppose I have; and I——” “No—you haven’t,” sobbed the girl. “And please don’t mind me; you’d better go away; you’d better not be seen with me. He’ll kill you, if he finds us together—he said he would.” “Who’ll kill me?” asked Philip, glancing round involuntarily. “Harry.” She was still sobbing, but he caught the name distinctly. “And who the deuce is Harry?” “As if you didn’t know! Why, Harry, of course—your servant. And he’ll keep his word, too.” CHAPTER V AN HONEST SAILOR-MAN