Bill, who had sat for some time looking at the hole in his stocking, drained his glass, and with a sad “Good-night,” creaked off upstairs. Presently Meg came down, and I rose and said we must be going. “I’ll just come an’ lock the door after you,” said she, standing uneasily waiting. George got up. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself; then he got his balance, and, with his eyes on Meg, said: “’Ere!” he nodded his head to her. “Come here, I want ter ax thee sumwhat.” She looked at him, half-smiling, half doubtful. He put his arm round her and looking down into her eyes, with his face very close to hers, said: “Let’s ha’e a kiss.” Quite unresisting she yielded him her mouth, looking at him intently with her bright brown eyes. He kissed her, and pressed her closely to him. “I’m going to marry thee,” he said. “Go on!” she replied, softly, half glad, half doubtful. “I am an’ all,” he repeated, pressing her more tightly to him. I went down the passage, and stood in the open doorway looking out into the night. It seemed a long time. Then I heard the thin voice of the old woman at the top of the stairs: “Meg! Meg! Send ’im off now. Come on!” In the silence that followed there was a murmur of voices, and then they came into the passage. “Good-night, my lad, good luck to thee!” cried the voice like a ghoul from upper regions. He kissed his betrothed a rather hurried good-night at the door. “Good-night,” she replied softly, watching him retreat. Then we heard her shoot the heavy bolts. “You know,” he began, and he tried to clear his throat. His voice was husky and strangulated with excitement. He tried again: “You know—she—she’s a clinker.” I did not reply, but he took no notice. “Damn!” he ejaculated. “What did I let her go for!” We walked along in silence—his excitement abated somewhat. “It’s the way she swings her body—an’ the curves as she stands. It’s when you look at her—you feel—you know.” I suppose I knew, but it was unnecessary to say so. “You know—if ever I dream in the night—of women—you know—it’s always Meg; she seems to look so soft, and to curve her body——” Gradually his feet began to drag. When we came to the place where the colliery railway crossed the road, he stumbled, and pitched forward, only just recovering himself. I took hold of his arm. “Good Lord, Cyril, am I drunk?” he said. “Not quite,” said I. “No,” he muttered, “couldn’t be.” But his feet dragged again, and he began to stagger from side to side. I took hold of his arm. He murmured angrily—then, subsiding again, muttered, with slovenly articulation: “I—I feel fit to drop with sleep.”