It was said curtly, almost angrily, but Nora Sansom heard it with an odd little tremor of pleasure. Though she merely said, “But why not? There’s no reason why you should be disappointed too.” “Anyhow, I’m not going,” he said; and after a pause added: “Perhaps you might ha’ gone if I hadn’t asked you!” “Oh, I shouldn’t!” she answered, with tears in eyes and voice. “You know I shouldn’t! I never go anywhere!” Johnny instantly felt himself a brute. “No,” he said. “I know you don’t. I didn’t mean anything unkind. But I won’t go.” “Do you really mean it?” “Of course. I’m not going without you.” He might have said something more, but a little group of people came straggling past. And the girl, with her eyes on this group, said the first thing that came to her tongue. “Where will you go then?” “Oh anywhere. I don’t know. Walk about, perhaps.” She looked shyly up in his face, and down again. “_I_ might go for a walk,” she said. Johnny’s heart gave a great beat. “Alone?” he asked. “I don’t know. Perhaps.” But she would be questioned into nothing definite. _If_ she took a walk, she _might_ go in such and such a direction, passing this or that place at seven o’clock, or half-past. That was all. And now she must hurry away, for she had already been too long. What mattered the dance to Johnny now? A fig for the dance. Let them dance that liked, and let them dance the floor through if it pleased them. But how was it that Nora Sansom could take a walk to-morrow evening, yet could not come to the Institute? That was difficult to understand. Still, hang the dance! For Nora it would be harder to speak. Howbeit indeed the destruction of the looked-for evening’s gladness, in her first fine frock, had been a bitter thing. But that day her hiding-place had been discovered, and now the dress that had cost such thoughtful design and such hopeful labour was lying, rolled and ticketed, on a pawnbroker’s shelf. XXVI. THAT they must come to Blackwall Pier was assured. For there were no streets, no crowds, no rumbling waggons; there were the wide sky and the unresting river, the breeze, the ships, and the endless train of brown-sailed barges. No unseamanlike garden-seats dishonoured the quay then, and strolling lovers sat on bollards or chains, or sat not at all. Here came Johnny and Nora Sansom when the shrinking arc of daylight was far and yellow in the west, and the Kentish hills away to the left grew dusk and mysterious. The tide ran high, and tugs were busy. A nest of them, with steam up, lay under the wharf wall to the right of the pier-barge, waiting for work; some were already lighted, and, on the rest, men were trimming the lamps or running them up, while a cheerful glow came from each tiny cabin and engine-room. Rascal boys flitted about the quays and gangways—the boys that are always near boats and water, ever failing to get drowned, and ever dodging the pestered men who try to prevent it.