Henry took a bite of his apple and started, thankful that a taste for reading of a thrilling description had furnished him with material. He fought ships in a way which even admirals had never thought of, and certainly not the pirates, who were invariably discomfited by the ingenious means by which he enabled virtue to triumph over sin. Miss Harcourt held her breath with pleasurable terror, and tightened or relaxed the grip of her small and not too clean fingers on his arm as the narrative proceeded. “But you never killed a man yourself,” said she, when he had finished. There was an inflection, just a slight inflection, of voice, which Henry thought undeserved after the trouble he had taken. “I can’t exactly say,” he replied shortly. “You see in the _h_eat”—he got it right that time—“in the _h_eat of an engagement you can’t be sure.” “Of course you can’t,” said Miss Harcourt, repenting of her unreasonableness. “You _are_ brave!” Henry blushed. “Are you an officer?” inquired Miss Harcourt. “Not quite,” said Henry, wishing somehow that he was. “If you make haste and become an officer I’ll marry you when I grow up,” said Miss Harcourt, smiling on him kindly. “That is if you like, of course.” “I should like it very much,” said Henry wistfully, “I didn’t mean it when I said I didn’t like your names just now.” “You shouldn’t have told stories, then,” said Miss Harcourt severely, but not unkindly; “I can’t bear storytellers.” The conscience-stricken Henry groaned inwardly, but, reflecting there was plenty of time to confess before the marriage, brightened up again. The “Rivers of Europe” had fallen beneath the table, and were entirely forgotten until the sounds of many feet and many voices in the garden recalled them to a sense of their position. “Play-time,” said the small girl, picking up her book and skipping to the farthest seat possible from Henry. “Thames, Seine, Danube, Rhine.” A strong, firm step stopped outside the door, and a key turned in the lock. The door was thrown open, and Miss Dimchurch peeping in, drew back with a cry of surprise. Behind her some thirty small girls, who saw her surprise, but not the reason for it, waited eagerly for light. “Miss Harcourt!” said the principal in an awful voice. “Yes, ma’am,” said Miss Harcourt looking up, with her finger in the book to keep the place. “How dare you stay in here with this person?” demanded the principal. “It wasn’t my fault,” said Miss Harcourt, working up a whimper. “You locked me in. He was here when I came.” “Why didn’t you call after me?” demanded Miss Dimchurch. “I didn’t know he was here; he was under the table,” said Miss Harcourt. Miss Dimchurch turned and bestowed a terrible glance upon Henry, who, with his forgotten pipe in his hand, looked uneasily up to see whether he could push past her. Miss Harcourt, holding her breath, gazed at the destroyer of pirates, and waited confidently for something extraordinary to happen.