“You see,” said Ozzie, “my old man owns a controlling interest in the Eagle Company.  That’s how I happen to know.”

“I see,” murmured Mr. Prohack, speculating wildly in private as to the identity of Ozzie’s old man.

When Ozzie with a nod and a smile and a re-fixing of his monocle left the cubicle to enter the studio, he left Mr. Prohack freshly amazed at the singularities of the world and of women, even the finest women.  How disturbing to come down to Putney in a taxi-cab in order to learn from a stranger that you have bought a two thousand pound car which is to come into your possession on the morrow!  The dangerousness, the excitingness, of being rich struck Mr. Prohack very forcibly.

A few minutes later he beheld a sight which affected him more deeply, and less pleasantly, than anything else in an evening of thunderclaps.  Through the little window he saw Sissie dancing with Ozzie Morfey.  And although Sissie was not gazing upward ecstatically into Ozzie’s face—­she could not because they were of a size—­and although her features had a rather stern, fixed expression, Mr. Prohack knew, from his knowledge of her, that Sissie was in a secret ecstasy of enjoyment while dancing with this man.  He did not like her ecstasy.  Was it possible that she, so sensible and acute, had failed to perceive that the fellow was a perfect ass?  For in spite of his amiability, a perfect ass the fellow was.  The sight of his Sissie held in the arms of Ozzie Morfey revolted Mr. Prohack.  But he was once again helpless.  And the most sinister suspicions crawled into his mind.  Why was the resplendent, the utterly correct Ozzie dancing in a dancing studio in Putney?  Certainly he was not there to learn dancing.  He danced to perfection.  The feet of the partners seemed to be married into a mystic unity of direction.  The performance was entrancing to watch.  Could it be possible that Ozzie was there because Sissie was there?  Darker still, could it be possible that Sissie had taken a share in the studio for any reason other than a purely commercial reason?

“He thinks you’re a darling,” said Sissie to her father afterwards when he and she and Eliza Brating, alone together in the studio, were informally consuming buns and milk in the corner where the stove was.

The talk ran upon dancers, and whether Ozzie Morfey was not one of the finest dancers in London.  Was Sissie’s tone quite natural?  Mr. Prohack could not be sure.  Eliza Brating said she must go at once in order not to miss the last tram home.  Mr. Prohack, without thinking, said that he would see her home in his taxi, which had been ruthlessly ticking his fortune away for much more than an hour.

“Kiss mother for me,” said Sissie, “and tell her that she’s a horrid old thing and I shall come along and give her a piece of my mind one of these days.”  And she gave him the kiss for her mother.

And as she kissed him, Mr. Prohack was very proud of his daughter—­so efficient, so sound, so straight, so graceful.