"It was a poor quip, and failed of its purpose. His relief was too palpable when I disallowed Mrs. Bailey.... By-the-by, that's a rum thing, Miss Dickenson,--that way young men have. I believe if I did it once when I was a young fillah I did it fifty times." "Did what?" "Well--breathed free on hearing that a girl wasn't engaged. Doesn't matter how doosid little they know of her--only seen her in the Park on horseback, p'r'aps--they'll eat a lot more lunch if they're told she's still in the market. Fact!" Miss Dickenson said that no doubt Mr. Pellew knew best, and that it was gratifying to think how many young men's lunches her earlier days might have intensified without her knowing anything about it. The gentleman felt himself bound to reassure and confirm, for was not the lady _passee_? "Rather!" said he; this favourite expression this time implying that the name of these lunches was no doubt Legion. An awkward sincerity of the lady caused her to say:--"I didn't mean that." And then she had to account for it. She was intrepid enough to venture on: "What I meant was, never being engaged," but not cool enough to keep of one colour exactly. It didn't rise to the height of embarrassment, but something rippled for all that. A cigar Mr. Pellew was lighting required unusual and special attention. It had a mission, that cigar. It had to gloss over a slight flush on its smoker's cheeks, and to take the edge off the abruptness with which he said,--"Oh, gammon!" as he threw a Vesuvian away. He picked up the lost thread at the point of his own indiscreet excursion into young-manthropology--his own word when he apologized for it. "Anyhow," said he, "it struck me that our friend upstairs was very hard hit. He made such a parade of his complete independence. Of course, I'm not much of a judge of such matters. Not my line. I understand that he has been prorogued--I mean his departure has. He's to try his luck at coming downstairs this evening after feeding-time. He funks finding the way to his mouth in public. Don't wonder--poor chap!" Then this lady had a fit of contrition about the way in which she had been gossiping, and tried to back out. She had the loathsome meanness to pretend that she herself had been entirely passive, a mere listener to an indiscreet and fanciful companion. "What gossips you men are!" said she, rushing the position boldly. "Fancy cooking up a romance about this Mr. Torrens and Gwen, when they've hardly so much as," she had nearly said, "set eyes on each other"; but revised it in time for press. It worked out "when she has really only just set eyes on him, and chatted half an hour." Mr. Pellew's indignation found its way through a stammer which expressed the struggle of courtesy against denunciation. "Come--hang it all!" said he. "It wasn't _my_ romance.... Oh, well, perhaps it wasn't yours either. Only--play fair, Miss Dickenson. Six of the one and half a dozen of the other! Confess up!"