d be quite bland, but young Pillin might whistle for an
explanation; he was still tormented, too, by the memory of rich curves
and moving lips, and the possibilities of better acquaintanceship.

While shaking the young man's hand his quick and fulvous eye detected
at once the discomposure behind that mask of cheek and collar, and
relapsing into one of those swivel chairs which give one an advantage
over men more statically seated, he said:

"You look pretty bobbish. Anything I can do for you?"

Bob Pillin, in the fixed chair of the consultor, nursed his bowler on
his knee.

"Well, yes, there is. I've just been to see Mrs. Larne."

Mr. Ventnor did not flinch.

"Ah! Nice woman; pretty daughter, too!" And into those words he put
a certain meaning. He never waited to be bullied. Bob Pillin felt the
pressure of his blood increasing.

"Look here, Ventnor," he said, "I want an explanation."

"What of?"

"Why, of your going there, and using my name, and God knows what."

Mr. Ventnor gave his chair two little twiddles before he said

"Well, you won't get it."

Bob Pillin remained for a moment taken aback; then he muttered
resolutely:

"It's not the conduct of a gentleman."

Every man has his illusions, and no man likes them disturbed. The
gingery tint underlying Mr. Ventnor's colouring overlaid it; even the
whites of his eyes grew red.

"Oh!" he said; "indeed! You mind your own business, will you?"

"It is my business--very much so. You made use of my name, and I don't
choose---"

"The devil you don't! Now, I tell you what---"

Mr. Ventnor leaned forward--"you'd better hold your tongue, and
not exasperate me. I'm a good-tempered man, but I won't stand your
impudence."

Clenching his bowler hat, and only kept in his seat by that sense of
something behind, Bob Pillin ejaculated:

"Impudence! That's good--after what you did! Look here, why did you?
It's so extraordinary!"

Mr. Ventnor answered:

"Oh! is it? You wait a bit, my friend!"

Still more moved by the mystery of this affair, Bob Pillin could only
mutter:

"I never gave you their address; we were only talking about old
Heythorp."

And at the smile which spread between Mr. Ventnor's whiskers, he jumped
up, crying:

"It's not the thing, and you're not going to put me off. I insist on an
explanation."

Mr. Ventnor leaned back, crossing his stout legs, joining the tips of
his thick fingers. In this attitude he was always self-possessed.

"