Sir Tobias Beddow would have been expecting
him long before that to deliver his account of the result of his
mission. Furthermore, Sir Tobias would be demanding an explanation as to
how it was that, having asked for Terry's hand the night before, he was
still unengaged to her. If he postponed the interview till to-morrow, it
would create the appearance of lukewarmness. He couldn't very well
excuse himself by saying that he'd spent the afternoon and evening with
Maisie. And he couldn't get Maisie to let him off on the plea that Sir
Tobias, her harshest critic, was waiting for him. Besides, he had
accomplished nothing as yet; Adair Easterday had not been mentioned.

If ever he made good his escape, he prayed that he might never again
encounter a woman possessed of charm. His paramount desire was to seize
his hat and make a furtive exit. There was nothing to prevent him but
the politeness due from a man to a woman--and she traded on it. As he
passed into the dining-room he was secretly on his guard. "I wonder what
she'll do next to inveigle me?" was his thought.

"It'll be only a little dinner," she explained as they seated
themselves. "You weren't expected. But Porter always has something
hidden away for an emergency. Don't you, Porter?"

He was getting accustomed to these asides addressed to Porter. He began
to perceive that Porter had other uses besides gliding round the table
in a cap and apron. She was a conversational stop-gap when situations
grew awkward, as they frequently must between an ensnared bachelor and
an unchaperoned widow.

And she was eligible; he had to own it as they sat down to their first
meal together. Tea hadn't counted as a meal; you can serve tea to
anybody. But dinner for two, in an oak-paneled room, when the spring
dusk is falling is different. The table was lit by four naked candles.
Looped back from the windows hung the marigold-tinted curtains,
revealing in triangular patches the courtyard, with its mock
village-green and its quaintly timbered houses. It looked very real in
the half-light. An electric street-lamp stood out sharply against the
fading sky, placid and contemplative as an unclouded moon. Several
houses away a woman was singing. Sometimes her voice sank so that he
lost the air; but once, when it rose, he caught the words, "Crushing out
life, than waving me farewell." He knew what she was singing then and
followed the air in his imagination. The atmosphere of the room was
vibr