Flinging back his shoulders and assuming a carelessness that almost amounted to a swagger, Cyril entered the hotel. He was so self-conscious that it was with considerable surprise as well as relief that he noticed that no one paid the slightest attention to him. Even the porter hardly glanced at him, being at the moment engaged in speeding a parting guest. Cyril decided to use the stairs in preference to the lift, as they were less frequented than the latter, and as it happened, he made his way up to the second landing without encountering anybody. There, however, he came face to face with a pretty housemaid, who to his dismay looked at him attentively. Cyril went cold all over. Had he but known it, she had been attracted by his tall, soldierly figure and had merely offered him the tribute of an admiring glance. But this explanation never occurred to our modest hero and he hurried, quite absurdly flustered by this trifling incident. He found that No. 62 opened on a small, ill-lighted hall, which was for the moment completely deserted. Now that he actually stood on the threshold of Anita's room, Cyril felt a curious reluctance to proceed farther. It was unwise.... She might not want to see him.... But even as these objections flashed through his mind, he knocked almost involuntarily. "Come in." Yet he still hesitated. His heart was beating like a sledge-hammer and his hands were trembling. Never had he experienced such a curious sensation before and he wondered vaguely what could be the matter with him. "I can't stand here forever," he said in his heart. "I wanted to see her; well then, why don't I open the door? I am behaving like a fool!" Still reasoning with himself, he finally entered the room. A bright fire was burning on the hearth and before it were heaped a number of cushions and from this lowly seat Anita had apparently hastily arisen. The length of time he had taken to answer her summons had evidently alarmed her, for she stood like a creature at bay, her eyes wide open and frightened. On recognising Cyril a deep blush suffused her face and even coloured the whiteness of her throat. "So it was you!" she exclaimed. Her relief was obvious, yet her manner was distant, almost repellent. Cyril had confidently anticipated such a different reception that her unexpected coldness completed his discomfiture. He felt as if the foundations of his world were giving away beneath his feet. He managed, however, to murmur something, he knew not what. The pounding of his heart prevented him from thinking coherently. When his emotion had subsided sufficiently for him to realise what he was doing, he found himself sitting stiffly on one side of the fire with Anita sitting equally stiffly on the other. She was talking--no, rather she was engaging him in polite conversation. How long she had been doing so he did not know, but he gathered that it could not have been long, as she was still on the subject of the weather.