eared. Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing
odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during
their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of
every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard.

I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the
minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in
a dance.

"Let's take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for
a while," said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, "One more turn, and
then we will have a long spell and a change of programme."

He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several
whirling couples. Harold "requested the pleasure" of me--the first time
that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal.

"Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I
cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you."

"Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me," he said,
quietly placing me in position.

He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the
garden.

"I am sorry that I haven't had more time to look after you today. Come
round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you," were his words.

I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden.
This was Harold's particular domain. It contained three rooms--one a
library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into
which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano,
facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we
entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the
face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten.

We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said:

"It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I'm sure you know
what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully
smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?"

This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow
or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become
fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had
always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting
me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love,
or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be.