unbalances him. He
becomes excitable--ah--irrational--"

With an inarticulate snort, Mr. Bross turned and fled into the house.

Confusion possessed him, and with it rage: stumbling blindly on the
first flight of steps, he clawed the atmosphere with fingers that
itched for vengeance.

"I'll get even!" he muttered savagely--"I'll get hunk with that boob
if it's the last act of my life!"

Fortunately, the hall was gloomy and at that moment deserted.

On the first landing he checked, clutched the banisters for support,
and endeavoured to compose himself--but with less success than he
realised.

It was with a suggestion of stealth that he ascended the second
flight--with an enforced deliberateness and caution that were wasted.
For as he reached the top, the door of the back hall-bedroom opened
gently for the space of three inches. Through this aperture were
visible a pair of bright eyes, with the curve of a plump and pretty
cheek, and an adorable bare arm and shoulder.

"That you, George?" Violet Prim demanded with vivacity.

Reluctantly he stopped and in a throaty monosyllable admitted his
identity.

"Well, how'd it go off?"

"Fine!"

"He fell for it?"

"All over himself. Honest, Vi, it was a scream to watch his eyes pop.
You could've clubbed 'em outa his bean without touchin' his beak. I
'most died."

Miss Prim giggled appreciatively.

"You're a wonder, George," she applauded. "It takes you to think 'em
out."

"Ah, I don't know," returned her admirer with becoming modesty.

"He's gone on her, all right, ain't he?"

"Crazy about her!"

"Think he'll make a play for her now?"

George demurred. Downright lying was all very well; he could manage
that with passable craft, especially when, as in this instance,
detection would be difficult; but prophecy was a little out of his
line. Though with misgivings, he resorted to unvarnished truth:

"You never can tell about P.S. He's a queer little gink."

Footsteps became audible on the stairs below.

"Well, so long. See you at dinner," George added in haste.

"George!"

"Well?" he asked, delaying with ill grace.

"What makes you sound so funny?"

"Laughin'!" protested George convincingly.

With determination and a heavy tread he went on to his room.

VI

SPRING TWILIGHT

When he had shaved (with particular care) and changed his linen
(trimming collar and cuffs to a degree of uncommon nicety) and resumed
his coat (brushing and hating it