visitors were equally unwelcome, which must be some
excuse for the roughness of Mr. Pryme's language.

The door was softly pushed ajar.

"Now, then--come in, can't you; who the deuce are you--_Beatrice_!"

Enter Miss Miller, smiling.

"Oh, fie, Herbert! what naughty words, sir."

"Beatrice, is it possible that it is you! Where is your mother? Are you
alone?" looking nervously round at the door, whilst he caught her
outstretched hand.

"Yes, I am quite alone; don't be very shocked. I know I am a horrid, bold
girl to come all by myself to a man's chambers; it's dreadful, isn't it!
Oh, what would people say of it if they knew--why, even _you_ look
horrified! But oh, Herbert, I did want to see you so. I was determined to
get at you somehow--and now I am here for a whole hour; I have managed it
beautifully--no one will ever find out where I have been. Mamma thinks I
am driving with Lady Kynaston!"

And then she sat down and took off her veil, and told him all about it.

She had got at her lover, and she felt perfectly happy and secure,
sitting there with his arm round her waist and her hand in his. Not so
Herbert. He was pleased, of course, to see her, and called her by a
thousand fond names, and he admired her courage and her spirit for
breaking through the conventional trammels of her life in order to come
to him; but he was horribly nervous all the same. Supposing that boy were
to come in from below, or the smiling tradesman, or, still worse, if the
great Q.C. were to catch a glimpse of her as she went out, and recognize
her from having met her in society, where would Miss Miller's reputation
be then?

"It is very imprudent of you--most rash and foolish," he kept on
repeating; but he was glad to see her all the same, and kissed her
between every other word.

"Now, don't waste any more time spooning," says Beatrice, with decision,
drawing herself a little farther from him on the hard leather sofa. "An
hour soon goes, and I have plenty to say to you. Herbert," with great
solemnity, "_I mean to elope with you!_"

Herbert gives an irrepressible start.

"_Now!_ this minute?" he exclaims, in some dismay, and reflects swiftly
that, just now he possesses exactly three pounds seven and sixpence in
ready money.

"No; don't be a goose; not now, because I haven't any clothes." Herbert
breathes more freely. "But some day, very soon, before the end of the
season."

"But, my pet, you are not of age," objects her lover;