Could you
send a man down that day to see the room and take the measurements?
I'd like to be there myself."

"Certainly, sir.

"Very well. He'd better come by the nine-thirty, which'll get him down
in two hours. I'll send to meet him. I'm going down by car myself."

"Thank you, sir." He turned to the girl inquiringly. "Perhaps Tuesday
would suit you, too, madam? I don't think you mentioned any particular
day, and as it's the same station for both houses, madam--"

He broke off. She and I were staring at one another. Then:

"How awfully strange," we said in unison.

The partner being there, there was no more to be said.

"Tuesday will do very well," she said, turning to him.

Together he conducted us to the street. Then, might he send for a
taxi? There was a rank... The idea of sending for two taxis never
seemed to enter his head. A good fellow, that partner. But, no thank
you, my lady would walk. Would pick up a cab presently.

"May I have the pleasure of seeing you to a taxi?" said I, naturally
enough.

"Thank you very much."

We bade the partner good-bye and turned in the direction of Westminster.

"You're sure it's not taking you out of your way?" said my companion
with an innocent look.

"Out of my way," said I. "D'you think I live at Tooting?"

She broke into a little laugh. I went on:

"And if I did. If I lived at Hither Green and was just going to miss
the last tram, don't you think I'd er--miss it?"

"You're very kind," she said quietly.

"Not at all," said I, with a glance downward. "The small bright shoe
is on the other exquisite--er--foot. It's very good of you to let me
walk with you, especially in view of my recent scandalous behaviour all
among the baths."

"Which reminds me, you were awful. I thought I should die, when you
asked that poor man--"

"A wholesome thirst for knowledge, my dear. Talking of which, d'you
know it's getting on for half-past one?"

"Is it really?"

"It is, indeed. Time tears away sometimes, doesn't he?"

"Sometimes."

"You are sweet," said I. "However. About Time. He's a mocker of men,
you know: very contrary. When he can serve, not he. When he cannot,
he is willing enough. Beg him to hasten, he'll cock his hat and stroll
with an air of leisure that makes us dance. Cry him to tarry, he is
already gone, the wind panting behind him. Bid him return, he is at
once all sympathy--grave sympathy: 'He may not. Otherwise he would