'Oh no. It was all about everything. The people were _so_ clever; it was something cruel how clever they were. One man _did_ lay down the law! Oh, didn't he though! I don't hold with being bullied and lectured from the stage, do you, Mavis? It seems so unfair when you can't answer back.'

'Was it Bernard Shaw?' she asked.

'No; it wasn't; not this time; it was someone else. Oh, I do feel sometimes when I'm sitting in my stall, so good and quiet, holding my programme nicely and sitting up straight to the table, as it were, and then a fellow lets me have it, tells me where I'm wrong and all that; I _should_ like to stand up and give a back answer, wouldn't you?'

'No; I'd like to see _you_ do it! Er--what colour is that hat that your cousin gave you?'

'Oh, colour?' he said thoughtfully, smoking. 'Let me see--what colour was it? It doesn't seem to me that it was any particular colour. It was a very curious colour. Sort of mole-colour. Or was it cerise? Or violet?... You wouldn't like to see it, would you?'

'Why, yes, I'd like to see it; I wouldn't try it on of course.'

He opened the box.

'Why, what a jolly hat!' she exclaimed. 'You may not know it, but that would just suit me; it would go with my dress, too.'

'Fancy.'

She took off her own hat, and touched up her hair with her fingers, and tried on the other. Under it her eyes brightened in front of the gla.s.s; her colour rose; she changed as one looked at her--she was sixteen again--the child he had first met at the Art School.

'Don't you think it suits me?' she said, turning round.

'Yes, I think you look very charming in it. Shall I put it back?'

There was a pause.

'I sha'n't know what on earth to do with it,' he said discontentedly.

'It's so silly having a hat about in a place like this. Of course you wouldn't dare to keep it, I suppose? It does suit you all right, you know; it would be awfully kind of you.'

'What a funny person you are, Vincy. I _should_ like to keep it. What could I tell Aunt Jessie?'

'Ah, well, you see, that's where it is! I suppose it wouldn't do for you to tell her the truth.'

'What do you mean by the truth?'

'I mean what I told you--how my cousin, Cissie Cavanack,' he smiled a little as he invented this name, 'came up to town, chose the wrong hat, didn't know what to do with it--and, you know!'

'I could tell her all that, of course.'

'All right,' said Vincy, putting the other hat--the old one--in the box.' Where shall we dine?'

'Oh, Vincy, I think you're very sweet to me, but how late dare I get back to Ravenscourt Park?'

'Why not miss the eight-five train?--then you'll catch the quarter to ten and get back at about eleven.'

'Which would you _rather_ I did?'

'Well, need you ask?'

'I don't know, Vincy. I have a curious feeling sometimes. I believe you're rather glad when I've gone--relieved!'

'Well, my dear,' he answered, 'look how you worry all the time! If you'd only have what I call a quiet set-down and a chat, without being always on the fidget, always looking either at the gla.s.s or at the clock, one might _not_ have that feeling.'

Her colour rose, and tears came to her eyes. 'Oh, then you _are_ glad when I'm gone!' She pouted. 'You don't care for me a bit, Vincy,' she said, in a plaintive voice.

He sat down next to her on the little striped sofa, and took her hand.

'Oh, give over, Mavis, do give over! I wish you wouldn't carry on like that; you do carry on, Mavis dear, don't you? Some days you go on something cruel, you do really. Reely, I mean. Now, cheer up and be jolly. Give a kiss to the pretty gentleman, and look at all these pretty good-conduct stripes on the sofa! There! That's better.'

'Don't speak as if I were a baby!'

'Do you mind telling me what we're quarrelling about, my dear? I only ask for information.'

'Oh, we're _not_. You're awfully sweet. You know I love you, Vincy.'

'I thought, perhaps, it was really all right.'

'Sometimes I feel miserable and jealous.'

He smiled. 'Ah! What are you jealous of, Mavis?'

'Oh, everything--everyone--all the people you meet.'

'Is that all? Well, you're the only person I ever meet--by appointment, at any rate.'

'Well--the Ottleys!'

His eye instinctively travelled to a photograph of Edith, all tulle and roses; a rather fascinating portrait.

'What about _her_?' asked Mavis. 'What price Mrs Ottley?'

'Really, Mavis!--What price? No price. Nothing about her; she's just a great friend of mine. I think I told you that before. ... What a frightfully bright light there is in the room,' Vincy said. He got up and drew the blind down. He came back to her.

'Your hair's coming down,' he remarked.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'But at the back it generally is.'

'Don't move--let me do it.'

Pretending to arrange it, he took all the hairpins out, and the cloud of dark red hair fell down on her shoulders.

'I like your hair, Mavis.'

'It seems too awful I should have been with you such a long time this afternoon,' she exclaimed.

'It _isn't_ long.'

'And sometimes it seems so dreadful to think I can't be with you always.'