He was quite safe, he knew, as long as their relations could be kept upon a purely hilarious footing; but Flossie’s manner intimated (what it had never intimated before) that she now realized and preferred the serious side of him; and there was no way by which the humorous Spinks was more profoundly flattered than in being taken seriously.  Some nights they had the drawing-room to themselves but for the harmless presence of Mr. Partridge dozing in his chair; and then, to see Flossie struggling to keep a polite little smile hovering on a mouth too tiny to support it; to see her give up the effort and suddenly become grave; to see her turn away to hide her gravity with all the precautions another woman takes to conceal her merriment; to see her sitting there, absolutely unmoved by the diverting behaviour of Mr. Partridge in his slumber, was profoundly agitating to Mr. Spinks.

“I’m sure,” said Flossie one night (it was nearly three weeks after the scene with Rickman in the Park), “I’m sure I don’t know why we’re laughing so much.  There’s nothing to laugh at that I can see.”

Spinks could have have replied in Byron’s fashion that if he laughed ’twas that he might not weep, but he restrained himself; and all he said was, “I like to see you larf.”

“Well, you can’t say you’ve ever seen me cry.”

“No, I haven’t.  I shouldn’t like to see that, Flossie.  And I shouldn’t like to be the one that made you.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Flossie put her pocket handkerchief to her little nose, and under the corner of it there peeped the tail-end of a lurking smile.

“No,” said Spinks simply, “I wouldn’t.”  He was thinking of Miss Roots.  The theory of Rickman’s bad behaviour had never entered his head.  “What’s more, I don’t think any nice person would do it.”

“Don’t you?”

“No.  Not any really nice person.”

“It’s generally,” said Flossie, sweetly meditative, “the nicest person you know who can make you cry most.  Not that I’m crying.”

“No.  But I can see that somebody’s been annoying you, and I think I can guess pretty well who it is, too.  Nothing would please me more than to ‘ave five minutes’ private conversation with that person.”  He was thinking of Miss Harden now.

“You mustn’t dream of it.  It wouldn’t do, you know; it really wouldn’t.  Look here, promise me you’ll never say a word.”

“Well it’s safe enough to promise.  There aren’t many opportunities of meeting.”

“No, that’s the worst of it, there aren’t now.  Still, you might meet him any minute on the stairs, or anywhere.  And if you go saying things you’ll only make him angry.”

“Oh it’s a him, is it?” (Now he was thinking of Soper.) “I know.  Don’t say Soper’s been making himself unpleasant.”

“He’s always unpleasant.”

“Is he?  By ’Eaven, if I catch him!”

“Do be quiet.  It isn’t Mr. Soper.”