She smiled delightfully.

“Know, indeed!  I knew it directly I saw you, I knew it every time your foot touched the stairs.  What is it, Arnold?  The cheeses didn’t smell so bad to-day?  Or you’ve had a rise?  Quick!  I must hear all about it.”

“You shall,” Arnold replied.  “It is a wonderful story.  Listen.  Have you ever heard the fable of Dick Whittington?”

“Married his employer’s daughter, of course.  What’s she like, Arnold?  Have you seen her?  Did you save her life?  When are you going to see her again?”

Chetwode was already on his knees, dragging out an old trunk from underneath the faded cupboard.  Suddenly he paused with a gesture of despair.

“Alas!” he exclaimed.  “My dream fades away.  Old Weatherley was married only last year.  Consequently, his daughter—­”

“He can’t have one,” she interrupted, ruthlessly.  “Tell me the news at once?”

“I am going to dine with old Weatherley,” he announced.

The girl smiled, a little wistfully.

“How funny!  But you will get a good dinner, won’t you, Arnold?  Eat ever so much, dear.  Yesterday I fancied that you were getting thin.  I do wish I could see what you have in the middle of the day.”

“Little mother!” he laughed.  “To-day I gorged myself on poached eggs.  What did Isaac give you?”

“Mutton stew and heaps of it,” the girl replied, quickly.  “To-night I shall have a bowl of milk as soon as you are gone.  Have you everything you ought to have to wear, Arnold?”

“Everything,” he declared, rising to his feet with a sigh of relief.  “It’s so long since I looked at my clothes that to tell you the truth I was a little bit anxious.  They may be old-fashioned, but they came from a good man to start with.”

“What made Mr. Weatherley ask you?” she demanded.

“Wanted one of his clerks to fill up and found that I played bridge,” Arnold answered.  “It’s rather a bore, isn’t it?  But, after all, he is my employer.”

“Of course you must go and behave your very nicest.  Tell me, when have you to start?”

“I ought to be changing in a quarter of an hour.  What shall we do till then?”

“Whatever you like,” she murmured.

“I am coming to sit at the window with you,” he said.  “We’ll look down at the river and you shall tell me stories about the ships.”

She laughed and took his hand as he dragged a chair over to her side.  He put his arm around her and her head fell naturally back upon his shoulder.  Her eyes sought his.  He was leaning forward, gazing down between the curving line of lamp-posts, across the belt of black river with its flecks of yellow light.  But Ruth watched him only.

“Arnie,” she whispered in his ear, “there are no fairy ships upon the river to-night.”

He smiled.

“Why not, little one?  You have only to close your eyes.”

Slowly she shook her head.