ll ask you to dine and sleep?" she said bluntly, though a charming
smile softened the crudity of her words. "Well, Mr.----?"

"Mortimer. Lionel Mortimer."

"Mr. Mortimer, I do not doubt your word for a moment. I should enjoy
cultivating your acquaintance and hearing some first-hand news of my
sister. But I fear it is impossible. You see there are the proprieties
to be considered. I am a single lady, and perhaps...."

To Lionel this was an astonishing view of the case. After his
unconventional week at the Bloomsbury flat he was poorly qualified to
appreciate the apprehensions of Miss Arkwright. His brain told him idly
that she was perfectly right, but his heart merely insisted on the abyss
between her outlook and her sister's. And, as usually happens, the heart
found the readier audience.

"Quite so--quite so! But surely you----"

"Are old enough?" she suggested helpfully, plunging him deeper.

"No--no! I did not mean that! I only meant that surely you have a
housekeeper--some person of mature age, much older--oh! _much_ older
than yourself--who would save the situation?"

"Well," she admitted with an exasperating coyness, "I have such a
domestic, it is true. Mrs. Wetherby is sixty. Do you think that would
do?"

"Admirably!" cried Lionel in triumph, caring nothing for his recent
buffets. "Admirably! Mrs. Wetherby shall protect you with the armor of a
centurion--or of a Lord Nelson," he added scrupulously, remembering that
the pre-dreadnought era would carry more conviction. "The thing is
arranged! I shall stay after all!"

"Thank you," returned Miss Arkwright with a demure twinkle. ("Is she a
prude? Oh, is she?" he reflected, watching.) "Of course, I shall be
delighted to do all I can for a friend of Beatrice. You really _do_ know
her?" she asked in pretty appeal, as if frightened at her own rashness.

"If you like," said Lionel, luxuriously recalling his wonderful week, "I
shall paint a word-picture of her charms. I shall tell you how her eyes
shame the starlight--how her hair can enmesh the hearts of all
beholders--how her lips----"

"I do not think I need trouble you," interrupted his hostess rather
distantly. "No doubt Beatrice is an attractive young person----"

"_Young person!_" he repeated, horror-struck. "Beatrice Blair a _young
person_! Profanity! Please, please do not----"

"I shall leave you to think of a better description," she said, with a
smile of pity that held no scorn. "I have some letter