“Did he give any name?” she asked. “Yes, Mr. Crathie.” Hal suppressed a smile. “I suppose you told him I was out.” “Yes, miss. He wanted to know when you would be back, and I asked Mr. Watson, and he told me to say ‘Not before evening.’” Hal climbed to the top of a bus, and journeyed homewards with a thoughtful air. Of course he would ring her up again the next day, and then what was she to say? In the meantime, looming big in her immediate horizon was the visit to be paid to Holloway that evening. She was going up without Dudley, having expressed a wish to do so, with which he had willingly complied. She felt it would be easier not to appear forced without him, and would be fairer on Doris also. Yet she dreaded the visit very much, and longed that it was over. Ethel opened the door to her, as she happened to be in the little kitchen close beside it, and Hal thought she looked very ill as she grasped her hand with warm friendliness, saying: “How nice of you to come and see Doris so soon.” “What are you doing in the kitchen?” said Hal. “I want to come and help.” “I’m only making a salad, and shall not be long. You must go to the parlour”; and she laughed at the quaint, old-fashioned word. “No, I’m coming to help,” and Hal walked past her, through the open door. “How’s Basil? Dudley spoke as if he was not quite so well just now.” “I’m afraid he isn’t,” with sudden, hardly veiled anxiety; “but it may only be the foggy weather.” To any one else Ethel would probably have asserted that he was well as usual, and changed the subject; but she liked Hal specially, and showed it by being quite honest with her. She also knew perfectly well that Dudley’s engagement must have been a great shock to his only sister, not solely because she had nothing whatever in common with Doris, but because she herself must love him; and her heart felt very tender and friendly over her. Although Hal had come to see Doris, she did not refrain from following her inclination, and seating herself on the kitchen table to chat to Ethel while she made the salad. Doris would keep, was her rapid mental conclusion, and they two might not get another chance of a few words alone. Chatting thus, it was interesting to note the similarity that existed between these wielders of the pen, each daily immersed in a City office. Each had the same clear, frank eyes, the same independent poise of head, the same air of capable energy and self-dependence. Each, too, had the same rather colourless skin, from lack of fresh air, though whereas Ethel looked tired and worn, Hal seemed strong and fresh and wore no air of delicacy. Then Doris came, with her pink-and-white daintiness, and spoke to them both with a little triumphant air of condescension; for was not she engaged to be married, whereas clever, working women usually became “old maids”?