“So long as Quong Ho gets one, it doesn’t matter,” laughed Marcelle. But he was in no humour for pleasantry. He dug his crutch viciously in the ground as he walked. “He takes it for granted that I’d love to be saddled with this scarecrow of a Chinaman. Don’t you see? It’s preposterous. My God! I’ve a jolly good mind to set him up regardless, like a pre-war nut—with solid silver boot-trees and the rest to correspond. It would serve J. B. right.” Said Marcelle with a sidelong glance—in her Sister’s uniform she looked very demure— “Why didn’t you refuse?” He fumed. “How could I? I couldn’t hurt the poor chap’s feelings. Besides——” “Besides what?” “This father of mine—his big gestures, his ugly mouth—and his infernal dancing eyes—and behind them something so pathetic and appealing—I don’t know. Sometimes I think I loathe the sight of him, and, at others, I feel that I’d be a beast if I shut my heart against him. And always I feel just like a rabbit before a boa-constrictor. I’m not a little boy. I’ve seen life naked. I’m on my own. I object to being bossed. In the Army it’s different—it’s part of the game; but outside—no!” He limped along to the house full of his grievance. It was not so much the clothing of Quong Ho that annoyed him, though he could well have spared himself the irritating embarrassment, as the sense of his gradual subordination to a dominating personality. The disconnected dynamo was hitching itself on to him, and he resented the process. “How you’ve escaped being married out of hand, I don’t know,” said he. Marcelle flushed. “The moment he realizes other people’s feelings,” she replied, “he becomes the gentlest creature on earth.” “I wish to goodness he’d begin to realize mine,” growled the young man. When they reached the front steps of Churton Towers, Marcelle said: “I wonder whether I could be of any help to you in your shopping?” “You? Why——” He beamed suddenly on her. “I’m free on Friday. I could go up to town with you.” “You’re an angel!” he declared. “A winged angel from heaven.” The boy in him broke out sunnily. “That’ll make all the difference. What a dear you are. Won’t we have a time! I’ll love to see you choosing the beast’s pyjamas.” “They shall be stout and sober flannel,” said Marcelle. “No. Silk. Green, red, yellow and violet. The sort of thing the chameleon committed suicide on.” “Who’s going to run the show—you or I?” “Oh you. You all the time.” He laughed and hobbled up the steps in high good humour.