‘Why, of course we’ll let you,’ came the prompt answer. ‘Tony says he’ll be most grateful, don’t you, Tony?’ Tony wagged his tail rather faintly. Stephen wrapped him up in a motor rug at the back of the car, where he lay as though prostrate. Angela she placed in the seat beside herself, helping her carefully as she did so. Presently Angela said: ‘Thanks to Tony I’ve met you at last; I’ve been longing to meet you!’ And she stared rather disconcertingly at Stephen, then smiled as though something she saw had amused her. Stephen wondered why anyone should have longed to meet her. Feeling suddenly shy she became suspicious: ‘Who told you about me?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Mrs. Antrim, I think—yes, it was Mrs. Antrim. She said you were such a wonderful rider but that now, for some reason, you’d given up hunting. Oh, yes, and she said you fenced like a man. Do you fence like a man?’ ‘I don’t know,’ muttered Stephen. ‘Well, I’ll tell you whether you do when I’ve seen you; my father was quite a well-known fencer at one time, so I learnt a lot about fencing in the States—perhaps some day, Miss Gordon, you’ll let me see you?’ By now Stephen’s face was the colour of a beetroot, and she gripped the wheel as though she meant to hurt it. She was longing to turn round and look at her companion, the desire to look at her was almost overwhelming, but even her eyes seemed too stiff to move, so she gazed at the long dusty road in silence. ‘Don’t punish the poor, wooden thing that way,’ murmured Angela, ‘it can’t help being just wood!’ Then she went on talking as though to herself: ‘What should I have done if that brute had killed Tony? He’s a real companion to me on my walks—I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for Tony, he’s such a devoted, cute little fellow, and these days I’m kind of thrown back on my dog—it’s a melancholy business walking alone, yet I’ve always been fond of walking—’ Stephen wanted to say: ‘But I like walking too; let me come with you sometimes as well as Tony.’ Then suddenly mustering up her courage, she jerked round in the seat and looked at this woman. As their eyes met and held each other for a moment, something vaguely disturbing stirred in Stephen, so that the car made a dangerous swerve. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, ‘that was rotten bad driving.’ But Angela did not answer. 3 Ralph Crossby was standing at the open doorway as the car swung up and came to a halt. Stephen noticed that he was immaculately dressed in a grey tweed suit that by rights should have been shabby. But everything about him looked aggressively new, his very hair had a quality of newness—it was thin brown hair that shone as though polished. ‘I wonder if he puts it out with his boots,’ thought Stephen, surveying him with interest.