"Oh—ah—awfully good of you—_good-bye_! I say, O’Brien, you’ll be late at the bank—I mean," glancing swiftly at her and away again, "not at all—of course—" He was out of the hall door, hustling in front of Denis, down the steps, and into the street. "You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?" observed Denis, mildly surprised. "Er—yes." He turned his red face away, and strode on. Nell went up to the Stronghold, smiling unwillingly. She felt as if she had known him for years, and she resented the feeling. She told herself that it was most annoying—his having come in just that morning when they were cleaning out the room; it was most unfortunate, for how could anyone be politely distant and dignified under such circumstances? And of course sweeping and laughing and having jokes _made_ you feel as if you had known a person for quite a long while—even an objectionable person like this Ted Lancaster, who spent his time lounging about and doing nothing except visit his tailor. She was quite sure he visited his tailor a great deal. And he preferred a motor-car to horses! By the time she reached the Stronghold she was frowning. "Sheila Pat, come and write your dictation." "Nell," the Atom observed as she sat her down, "I’m very sorry for that poor boy." "Why?" "He’s _never been in Ireland_, Nell!" "Well, so haven’t lots of other people." "I don’t mind about them, but I like that boy, and all these wicked men in Parlymint have—_diseased_ his mind about Ireland! I have forgave all the nasty things he said because I’m so sorry for him, poor boy. And you see," patronisingly, "he doesn’t know anythin’ about it." "He’s not a bit good-looking," observed Molly irrelevantly; "he’s got rather a big nose." "Molly O’Brien, you’re none so beautiful yourself that you need be rude about other persons’ noses," severely. "That boy’s the best I’ve seen in this London yet!" "What queer taste you have, Sheila Pat!" said Nell, with a curl of her lip. The Atom did not heed her. She was sunk deep in thought. "I like him," she remarked after a while thoughtfully. "Sure I wouldn’t mind him about—when it’s mistletoe time!" *CHAPTER X* Miss Kezia put her latch-key into the lock in a serene frame of mind. She had spent a morning in giving advice. In any case that was a way congenial to her of spending her time. Moreover, on this occasion her advice had been taken; all the bare, unsweetened pills concocted of her wisdom had been swallowed unmurmuringly. Miss Kezia smiled decorously as she stood on her doorstep. Then she opened the door, and was greeted with an emphatic: "Git out, you old meddlar! D’you hear? Git out!" The shock to her was considerable; it was the more considerable that it came on top of her advice-given-and-taken morning.