With a neatly written cheque for fifty pounds in his pocket Bob Pillin turned in at 23, Millicent Villas on the afternoon after Mr. Ventnor's visit. Chivalry had won the day. And he rang the bell with an elation which astonished him, for he knew he was doing a soft thing.

“Mrs. Larne is out, sir; Miss Phyllis is at home.”

His heart leaped.

“Oh-h! I'm sorry. I wonder if she'd see me?”

The little maid answered

“I think she's been washin' 'er'air, sir, but it may be dry be now. I'll see.”

Bob Pillin stood stock still beneath the young woman on the wall. He could scarcely breathe. If her hair were not dry—how awful! Suddenly he heard floating down a clear but smothered “Oh! Gefoozleme!” and other words which he could not catch. The little maid came running down.

“Miss Phyllis says, sir, she'll be with you in a jiffy. And I was to tell you that Master Jock is loose, sir.”

Bob Pillin answered “Tha-anks,” and passed into the drawing-room. He went to the bureau, took an envelope, enclosed the cheque, and addressing it: “Mrs. Larne,” replaced it in his pocket. Then he crossed over to the mirror. Never till this last month had he really doubted his own face; but now he wanted for it things he had never wanted. It had too much flesh and colour. It did not reflect his passion. This was a handicap. With a narrow white piping round his waistcoat opening, and a buttonhole of tuberoses, he had tried to repair its deficiencies. But do what he would, he was never easy about himself nowadays, never up to that pitch which could make him confident in her presence. And until this month to lack confidence had never been his wont. A clear, high, mocking voice said:

“Oh-h! Conceited young man!”

And spinning round he saw Phyllis in the doorway. Her light brown hair was fluffed out on her shoulders, so that he felt a kind of fainting-sweet sensation, and murmured inarticulately:

“Oh! I say—how jolly!”

“Lawks! It's awful! Have you come to see mother?”

Balanced between fear and daring, conscious of a scent of hay and verbena and camomile, Bob Pillin stammered:

“Ye-es. I—I'm glad she's not in, though.”

Her laugh seemed to him terribly unfeeling.

“Oh! oh! Don't be foolish. Sit down. Isn't washing one's head awful?”

Bob Pillin answered feebly:

“Of course, I haven't much experience.”

Her mouth opened.

“Oh! You are—aren't you?”

And he thought desperately: 'Dare I—oughtn't I—couldn't I somehow take her hand or put my arm round her, or something?' Instead, he sat very rigid at his end of the sofa, while she sat lax and lissom at the other, and one of those crises of paralysis which beset would-be lovers fixed him to the soul.

Sometimes during this last month memories of a past existence, when chaff and even kisses came readily to the lips, and girls were fair game, would make him think: 'Is she really such an innocent? Doesn't she really want me to kiss her?' Alas! such intrusions lasted but a moment before a blast of awe and chivalry withered them, and a strange and tragic delicacy—like nothing he had ever known—resumed its sway. And suddenly he heard her say:

“Why do you know such awful men?”

“What? I don't know any awful men.”

“Oh yes, you do; one came here yesterday; he had whiskers, and he was awful.”

“Whiskers?” His soul revolted in disclaimer. “I believe I only know one man with whiskers—a lawyer.”

“Yes—that was him; a perfectly horrid man. Mother didn't mind him, but I thought he was a beast.”

“Ventnor! Came here? How d'you mean?”

“He did; about some business of yours, too.” Her face had clouded over. Bob Pillin had of late been harassed by the still-born beginning of a poem:

It never grew longer, and was prompted by the feeling that her face was like an April day. The cloud which came on it now was like an April cloud, as if a bright shower of rain must follow. Brushing aside the two distressful lines, he said:

“Look here, Miss Larne—Phyllis—look here!”

“All right, I'm looking!”

“What does it mean—how did he come? What did he say?”

She shook her head, and her hair quivered; the scent of camomile, verbena, hay was wafted; then looking at her lap, she muttered:

“I wish you wouldn't—I wish mother wouldn't—I hate it. Oh! Money! Beastly—beastly!” and a tearful sigh shivered itself into Bob Pillin's reddening ears.

“I say—don't! And do tell me, because—”

“Oh! you know.”

“I don't—I don't know anything at all. I never—-”

Phyllis looked up at him. “Don't tell fibs; you know mother's borrowing money from you, and it's hateful!”

A desire to lie roundly, a sense of the cheque in his pocket, a feeling of injustice, the emotion of pity, and a confused and black astonishment about Ventnor, caused Bob Pillin to stammer:

“Well, I'm d—-d!” and to miss the look which Phyllis gave him through her lashes—a look saying:

“Ah! that's better!”

“I am d—-d! Look here! D'you mean to say that Ventnor came here about my lending money? I never said a word to him—-”

“There you see—you are lending!”

He clutched his hair.

“We've got to have this out,” he added.

“Not by the roots! Oh! you do look funny. I've never seen you with your hair untidy. Oh! oh!”

Bob Pillin rose and paced the room. In the midst of his emotion he could not help seeing himself sidelong in the mirror; and on pretext of holding his head in both his hands, tried earnestly to restore his hair. Then coming to a halt he said:

“Suppose I am lending money to your mother, what does it matter? It's only till quarter-day. Anybody might want money.”

Phyllis did not raise her face.

“Why are you lending it?”

“Because—because—why shouldn't I?” and diving suddenly, he seized her hands.

She wrenched them free; and with the emotion of despair, Bob Pillin took out the envelope.

“If you like,” he said, “I'll tear this up. I don't want to lend it, if you don't want me to; but I thought—I thought—” It was for her alone he had been going to lend this money!

Phyllis murmured through her hair:

“Yes! You thought that I—that's what's so hateful!”

Apprehension pierced his mind.

“Oh! I never—I swear I never—”

“Yes, you did; you thought I wanted you to lend it.”

She jumped up, and brushed past him into the window.

So she thought she was being used as a decoy! That was awful—especially since it was true. He knew well enough that Mrs. Larne was working his admiration for her daughter for all that it was worth. And he said with simple fervour:

“What rot!” It produced no effect, and at his wits' end, he almost shouted: “Look, Phyllis! If you don't want me to—here goes!” Phyllis turned. Tearing the envelope across he threw the bits into the fire. “There it is,” he said.

Her eyes grew round; she said in an awed voice: “Oh!”

In a sort of agony of honesty he said:

“It was only a cheque. Now you've got your way.”

Staring at the fire she answered slowly:

“I expect you'd better go before mother comes.”

Bob Pillin's mouth fell afar; he secretly agreed, but the idea of sacrificing a moment alone with her was intolerable, and he said hardily:

“No, I shall stick it!”

Phyllis sneezed.

“My hair isn't a bit dry,” and she sat down on the fender with her back to the fire.

A certain spirituality had come into Bob Pillin's face. If only he could get that wheeze off: “Phyllis is my only joy!” or even: “Phyllis—do you—won't you—mayn't I?” But nothing came—nothing.

And suddenly she said:

“Oh! don't breathe so loud; it's awful!”

“Breathe? I wasn't!”

“You were; just like Carmen when she's dreaming.”

He had walked three steps towards the door, before he thought: 'What does it matter? I can stand anything from her; and walked the three steps back again.

She said softly:

“Poor young man!”

He answered gloomily:

“I suppose you realise that this may be the last time you'll see me?”

“Why? I thought you were going to take us to the theatre.”

“I don't know whether your mother will—after—-”

Phyllis gave a little clear laugh.

“You don't know mother. Nothing makes any difference to her.”

And Bob Pillin muttered:

“I see.” He did not, but it was of no consequence. Then the thought of Ventnor again ousted all others. What on earth-how on earth! He searched his mind for what he could possibly have said the other night. Surely he had not asked him to do anything; certainly not given him their address. There was something very odd about it that had jolly well got to be cleared up! And he said:

“Are you sure the name of that Johnny who came here yesterday was Ventnor?”

Phyllis nodded.

“And he was short, and had whiskers?”

“Yes; red, and red eyes.”

He murmured reluctantly:

“It must be him. Jolly good cheek; I simply can't understand. I shall go and see him. How on earth did he know your address?”

“I expect you gave it him.”

“I did not. I won't have you thinking me a squirt.”

Phyllis jumped up. “Oh! Lawks! Here's mother!” Mrs. Larne was coming up the garden. Bob Pillin made for the door. “Good-bye,” he said; “I'm going.” But Mrs. Larne was already in the hall. Enveloping him in fur and her rich personality, she drew him with her into the drawing-room, where the back window was open and Phyllis gone.

“I hope,” she said, “those naughty children have been making you comfortable. That nice lawyer of yours came yesterday. He seemed quite satisfied.”

Very red above his collar, Bob Pillin stammered:

“I never told him to; he isn't my lawyer. I don't know what it means.”

Mrs. Larne smiled. “My dear boy, it's all right. You needn't be so squeamish. I want it to be quite on a business footing.”

Restraining a fearful inclination to blurt out: “It's not going to be on any footing!” Bob Pillin mumbled: “I must go; I'm late.”

“And when will you be able—-?”

“Oh! I'll—I'll send—I'll write. Good-bye!” And suddenly he found that Mrs. Larne had him by the lapel of his coat. The scent of violets and fur was overpowering, and the thought flashed through him: 'I believe she only wanted to take money off old Joseph in the Bible. I can't leave my coat in her hands! What shall I do?'

Mrs. Larne was murmuring:

“It would be so sweet of you if you could manage it today”; and her hand slid over his chest. “Oh! You have brought your cheque-book—what a nice boy!”

Bob Pillin took it out in desperation, and, sitting down at the bureau, wrote a cheque similar to that which he had torn and burned. A warm kiss lighted on his eyebrow, his head was pressed for a moment to a furry bosom; a hand took the cheque; a voice said: “How delightful!” and a sigh immersed him in a bath of perfume. Backing to the door, he gasped:

“Don't mention it; and—and don't tell Phyllis, please. Good-bye!”

Once through the garden gate, he thought: 'By gum! I've done it now. That Phyllis should know about it at all! That beast Ventnor!'

His face grew almost grim. He would go and see what that meant anyway!