ut the slightest appearance of having heard him.

Da Souza snorted, but at that moment he felt a grip like iron upon his
shoulder, and deemed retreat expedient.

"If you don't go without another word," came a hot whisper in his ear,
"I'll throw you into the horse-pond."

He went swiftly, ungracious, scowling. Trent returned to the girl. She
looked up at him and closed her book.

"You must change your friends," she said gravely. "What a horrible man!"

"He is a beast," Trent answered, "and go he shall. I would to Heaven
that I had never seen him."

She rose, slipped her note-book into her pocket, and drew on her gloves.

"I have taken up quite enough of your time," she said. "I am so much
obliged to you, Mr. Trent, for all you have told me. It has been most
interesting."

She held out her hand, and the touch of it sent his heart beating with
a most unusual emotion. He was aghast at the idea of her imminent
departure. He realised that, when she passed out of his gate, she passed
into a world where she would be hopelessly lost to him, so he took his
courage into his hands, and was very bold indeed.

"You have not told me your name," he reminded her.

She laughed lightly.

"How very unprofessional of me! I ought to have given you a card! For
all you know I may be an impostor, indulging an unpardonable curiosity.
My name is Wendermott--Ernestine Wendermott."

He repeated it after her.

"Thank you," he said. "I am beginning to think of some more things which
I might have told you."

"Why, I should have to write a novel then to get them all in," she said.
"I am sure you have given me all the material I need here."

"I am going," he said abruptly, "to ask you something very strange and
very presumptuous!"

She looked at him in surprise, scarcely understanding what he could
mean.

"May I come and see you some time?"

The earnestness of his gaze and the intense anxiety of his tone almost
disconcerted her. He was obviously very much in earnest, and she had
found him far from uninteresting.

"By all means," she answered pleasantly, "if you care to. I have a
little flat in Culpole Street--No. 81. You must come and have tea with
me one afternoon."

"Thank you," he said simply, with a sigh of immense relief.

He walked with her to the gate, and they talked about rhododendrons.

Then he watched her till she became a speck in the dusty road--she
had refused a carriage, and he had had tact enough not to press