me in! I'm glad you've come, for I'm
bored to tears."

Ashford Billing, a smartly-dressed man of thirty-six, entered. One would
hardly have guessed him to be connected with the stage, for he had a
mustache, was well-groomed without over-emphasizing the fact, and had a
pleasant look of self-reliance without swagger. He was tall and lean, as
if he was accustomed to keep himself in hard condition, and though an
American you could scarcely have guessed it from his speech. Four years
in England, during which time he had studied to erase transatlantic
idioms and intonations with a view of playing on the stage, had been
crowned with almost complete success. Only a stray word, a phrase
occasionally, showed that he was not a native-born.

"It's an early call, Miss Blair," he said pleasantly as he followed her
into the sitting-room. "Partly business and partly pleasure. Which will
you have first?"

"Oh, pleasure," answered Beatrice carelessly: "I'm tired of business.
Will you smoke?"

"No, thank you. Well, I'll plunge into the pleasure right away, though
there's some business in it, too. You know I'm not the man to beat about
the bush, so I'll ask you straight out if you're still in the same mind
as you were six months ago?"

Beatrice made an irritated movement of her shoulders.

"Oh, bother!" she answered. "Fancy calling at this hour to ask me that!"

"Sorry," said Ashford Billing. He did not appear at all excited, though
his eyes gleamed. "My time's hardly my own just now--working day and
night over the new production, provincial tours and syndicates. And you
never seem to be at home at reasonable hours--I called twice last week,
but Mizzi said you were out."

Beatrice blushed, and turned to the window to hide the blush. She
remembered her instructions to Mizzi.

"So I thought I'd come now on the off chance," continued Billing. "Dear
Miss Blair, I may not appear romantic or in earnest, but I am. I'm a
plain man and want to marry you. You refused me once, but I don't like
giving up altogether. Is it any good?"

"Not a bit," said Beatrice decisively. "Sorry, Ashford: I like you
awfully, but not that way. So you must take that as final."

"I will for the present," he answered, looking gloomy for a moment. Then
he brightened up. "But at the risk of offending I warn you that I mean
to ask you again later on, in case you change your mind. In the American
dictionary there's no such word as 'impossible.'"

Beatrice was r