Miss Mivvins was annoyed; the impatient tapping was evidence of it. Not that a little exhibition of temper in any way detracted from her personal appearance. On the contrary, the air of petulance heightened her charms.

"You are just like a man!"

Her speech was accompanied by another toss of her shapely head.

"Isn't that twisting things round? You mean that he never gives a reason for what he says or does?"

"Yes."

Resumption of tattoo with her foot on the ground. It made him exclaim:

"I knew I was right! What if I tell you that I am a mind reader?"

"I would not be a bit surprised!"

He was: greatly. Could not understand what she meant; queried:

"You wouldn't?"

"No."

"I am—to hear you say it. Why?"

"Because in this book of yours I am reading"—she held it up—"I see you believe in palmistry."

"Come, come!" He was genuine in his expostulation. "I make one of my characters believe in it."

"Then you do not?"

She had him in a corner; was merciless. He tried to wriggle out; said:

"I did not say so."

It was an infecund effort on his part. She pinned him in still further; was that kind of woman.

"What does that mean? That you do and you do not?"

There was nothing for him but to fence; he answered:

"Yes and No."

It did not in any way extricate him from his difficulty. She continued:

"You are a complete enigma."

"There is no prize offered for the solution."

He endeavoured to speak lightly, to bring the conversation back to the humorous line it had left; continued:

"I have known people take quite an interest in enigmas. Do you?"

She changed the subject. Kept away from where there was a treading on dangerous ground; felt the ice getting thin; said:

"I gather that this palmist character of yours professes to read the past, but does not venture on prophecy?"

"I venture on prophecy now!"

He spoke suddenly, rising as he did so. Picking up his books, and—for the first time—quietly possessing himself of her bag, continued:

"That rapidly travelling cloud, at present looking very little larger than a man's hand, coming from the south, is full of rain. It will burst before we are back in the town, unless we hurry. Gracie! Gracie!"

The little girl came running in response to his call. All three, for the first time, walked homewards together. A student of human nature might have seen in it a beginning of things.

"I am living in Marine Terrace."

He was describing the situation of his lodgings. Waited for her to respond, and then asked:

"Have you far to go?"

"Oh, not so far as you have; little more than half-way. Ivy Cottage; on the front. Do you know——"

"That pretty little bungalow with the creeper over the porch? Before we reach the big houses?"

"Yes."

He cast an eye over his shoulder at the still distant cloud, gauging the time of its breaking; said:

"When the rain comes it will last, I fear. That will mean confinement to the house."

"I fancy so, too. The local weatherwise are predicting it also. You are not the only prophet. 'Corns are shooting and roomatiz is bad.'"

He laughed at her excellent imitation of the dialect ruling the language of the people; then said:

"May I be personal? How are you off for reading matter?"

"Oh, Mudie's have sent me down an absolutely abominable selection. With"—a twinkle escaped from the corner of her eye—"with the exception of that one of yours."

"I won't gratify you with even a smile of approval at so callous a joke," he said coolly. "To trample on my feelings so is positively inhuman. Still, that 'exception' emboldens me."

"In what way?"

"That finding you interested in one of my books, I want you to let me—I want you to favour me by accepting from me a set?"

"A set?"

"I have been guilty of five others." Mock despair was in his tone. "Accept my contrite apologies."

"Five others!"

"I have to plead guilty to that number. Heinous, isn't it?"

"Oh, I did not mean that."

"And so young too!"

"Really, Mr. Masters!" The flush was being worn again. "You are, really, too bad; raking up old grievances!"

"I would like you to try and think there is a substratum of good."

She ignored his speech, rather the significance in the tone of its delivery; said:

"I did not know—I confess openly, you see. This makes but the third of yours I have read."

"Then there is a possibility of interest being left in the three you have not read. Let the weather be my excuse for forcing them on you."

"As if an excuse were needed! Pray do not speak of your kindness so!"

"Then—I have some work I must finish this afternoon for the post—may I bring them to you this evening?"

She hesitated a moment. Induced to do so by a thought of the unwisdom of playing with fire. His hyper-sensitive nature made him shrink from that hesitation, to nervously say:

"I beg your pardon. I mean I will make a parcel of them and send them up to you."

The note of pain in his voice was so plain that any question of her wisdom—or want of it—vanished. She was moved to put her hand on his arm; to say:

"Don't deprive me of half the pleasure of the gift. Please bring them yourself."

It was a pretty little speech. Prettily spoken. No answering word came to his lips, but the look of gladness in his eyes was eloquent. Eloquent enough to make her mentally pause again and ask herself: was she acting altogether wisely?

Miss Mivvins was sailing under false colours. Was not in a position to haul them down, or fly her own. But she found him entertaining and—and—and very pleasant to talk to. She left it at that.

She could not afterwards remember much of what they talked about on their walk along the wall homewards. But she was conscious of spending a very pleasant afternoon; that it had passed away all too quickly. The most entertaining conversations are usually those which flow so smoothly that we forget to note the landmarks and stepping-stones on the way.

She was in a quandary: dared not reveal to him her true self. She had learnt enough of him to know that if she ran up her own flag, one glance at the masthead would mean his sheering right away.

She was not at all anxious that that should happen; did not want to lose him. She had grown to—to—to more than like him. Why, she asked herself petulantly, why could he not be as other men?

The rain held off till they reached her gate. There they said good-bye, shaking hands for the first time. The touch thrilled them both. As an outcome he saw possibilities; felt what their meeting might possibly lead to. It was a pleasant feeling. Things were coloured by it—colour of the rose.

Her good-bye was spoken lightly. Instinctively she tried to counteract that thrill. Yet there was a lingering tone in her voice as she said, finally:

"Till eight o'clock."

Then came Gracie's turn. He stooped down, lifted and kissed her. She said—

"Good-bye, Prince Charlie. I shan't see you in the evening because I go to bed at half-past seven."

"My word! Half-past seven! How late for a little girl to sit up!"

She exclaimed indignantly at so gross an insult:

"I'm not a little girl! I'm nearly five!"

Her indignation was a fleeting one. He held her away; threw her up in the air till she screamed with the delight of the pleasant fear. Then caught and kissed her and set the mite on her feet again.

So he dealt with the child. Then, raising his hat, gave a final kindly smile in the direction of the governess; nodded and said a final good-bye.

Such was their parting. Each was full of thoughts of the other. He walked home wonderingly, thinking, why—for what reason—she had said eight o'clock. It sounded so—then he laughed at his stupid thought.

So life touches life a moment, thrills and bids it stay—as two drops of water in a peaceful stream may touch for an instant and in the next be parted by the waving reeds.

What of after meetings? Would they be guided to one another by that strange fate that we call Destiny?