ned how they had seen Edwin, and went on to say that it was
impossible to persuade him to call.

"What rot!" said Charlie. "I bet you what you like I get him here
to-morrow night." He added to Hilda: "Went to school with him!" Hilda's
face burned.

"I bet you don't," said Janet stoutly, from across the room.

"I'll bet you a shilling I do," said Charlie.

"Haven't a penny left," Janet smiled. "Father, will you lend me a
shilling?"

"That's what I'm here for," said Mr. Orgreave.

"Mr. Orgreave," the youngest Swetnam put in, "you talk exactly like the
dad talks."

The bet was made, and according to a singular but long-established
family custom, Tom had to be stake-holder.

Hilda became troubled and apprehensive. She hoped that Charlie would
lose, and then she hoped that he would win. Looking forward to the
intimate bedroom chat with Janet which brought each evening to a
heavenly close, she said to herself: "If he _does_ come, I shall make
Janet promise that I'm not to be asked to recite or anything. In fact, I
shall get her to see that I'm not discussed."

CHAPTER V
EDWIN CLAYHANGER

I

The next evening, Mr. and Mrs. Orgreave, Hilda, Janet, and Alicia were
in the dining-room of the Orgreaves awaiting the advent at the supper-
table of sundry young men whose voices could be heard through open doors
in the distance of the drawing-room.

Charlie Orgreave had won his bet: and Edwin Clayhanger was among those
young men who had remained behind in the drawing-room to exchange,
according to the practice of young men, ideas upon life and the world.
Hilda had been introduced to him, but owing to the performance of
another Beethoven symphony there had been almost no conversation before
supper, and she had not heard him talk. She had stationed herself behind
the grand piano, on the plea of turning over the pages for the musicians
(though it was only with great uncertainty, and in peril of missing the
exact instant for turning, that she followed the music on the page), and
from this security she had furtively glanced at Edwin when her task
allowed. "Perhaps I was quite mistaken last night," she said to herself.
"Perhaps he is perfectly ordinary." The strange thing was that she could
not decide whether he was ordinary or not. At one moment his face
presented no interest, at another she saw it just as she had seen it,
framed in the illuminated aperture of the shop-shutters, on the previous
night. Or she fancied