And in the early days of their acquaintance, Miss Flossie Walker (then only an apprentice to a firm of type-writers in Holborn) was very much to be pitied.  He could remember how she had come (a little while before that memorable Bank holiday) to Mrs. Downey’s boarding-house, a plump but rather anaemic maiden, black-haired, and demure.  He had begun by talking to her at table, because she sat next to him, and he had ended, if there ever is an end to these things, by taking her to matinees, picture-galleries, restaurants, and the British Museum.  The girl was so young, so confiding, and so obviously respectable, that he was careful to keep to the most guileless of middle-class entertainments.  A few weeks of this existence brought shy smiles and a lively play of dimples on Flossie’s face.  She grew plumper still, less anaemic, though hardly less demure.  A few months, and Flossie’s beauty flowered and expanded, she began to dress as became it, entering into rivalry with Miss Ada Bishop, until it dawned on him that Flossie was really, in her own place and way, a very engaging little creature.

About this time Flossie’s circumstances had improved as much as her appearance.  Her father had been a clerk in the Bank of England, and on his death she obtained a post there as a sorter.  That position gave Flossie both dignity and independence; it meant light work and hours which brought hope with them every day towards three o’clock.  Under these circumstances Flossie’s beauty went on flowering and expanding, till she became more than ever a thing of danger and disaster.

Her intimacy with Mr. Rickman, which had lapsed lately, owing to his increasing passion for solitude and separation, revived suddenly in the spring of ninety-five.  It happened in this manner.  With the spring, Mrs. Downey’s was once more agitated by the hope of the Bank holiday, and Mr. Spinks inquired of Rickman if he were going out of town for Easter. (Rickman was incautiously dining that evening at the general table.) But Rickman wasn’t going out of town.  He said he thought of going somewhere up the river.  He had also thought, though he did not say so, that in fulfilment of an ancient promise he would take Miss Flossie to the play on Saturday afternoon.  Yet when it came to the point he had some diffidence in asking her.  She might not think it proper.

It was Mr. Soper who precipitated his resolve.  He wanted to know if Rickman had made up a party for the River, and ’ad any companion?

No.  He hadn’t made up a party.  Thanks, awfully.  He was going by Himself.

Mr. Soper didn’t think now that was a very enjoyable way of spendin’ a Bank holiday.

He put it that if it was Rickman’s intention to hire a row-boat, it wouldn’t be at all a bad idea if he, Soper, and Mr. Spinks, say, were to join.

As Soper’s incredible suggestion sank into him, the expression of Rickman’s face was pitiable to see.  It was then that casually, as if the idea had only just occurred to him, he wondered whether Miss Walker would by any chance care for a matinee ticket for the play?  He was anxious to give his offer an uncertain and impromptu character, suggesting that Miss Walker must be torn between her many engagements, and have matinee tickets in large numbers up the sleeve of her charming blouse.