“A pair of shoes?” Blanche broke in, her eyes dancing, while her lips parted in a smile.

“Yes, yes; that’s what I meant.”

“They came up just after dinner,” Blanche returned.  “Then you are the gentleman.”

“I’m afraid I am,” Crombie owned, and they both laughed.

Blanche quietly, and with no apparent intention, resumed her chair; and this time Crombie took a seat without waiting to be invited again.  Thus they fell to talking in the friendliest way.

“I can’t imagine what has become of papa,” said Blanche.  “He sent word, in the most mysterious manner, that he had an engagement; and it is so unusual!  Perhaps it’s something about the new house he’s building—­up-town, you know.  Dear me! it does make so much trouble, and I don’t believe I shall like it half as well as these little, cosey rooms.”

The little, cosey rooms were as the abode of giants compared with Crombie’s contracted quarters; but he drew comfort from what she said, thinking how such sentiments might make it possible to win even so unattainable an heiress into some modest home of his own.

“You don’t know till you try it,” he replied.  “Just think of having a place all to yourself, belonging to you.”

Blanche lifted her eyebrows, and a little sigh escaped her.  She was reflecting, perhaps, that a place all to herself would be rather lonely.

“You have never met my father?” she asked.

“No.  I have seen him.”

“Well, I think you will like him when you know him.”

“I don’t doubt it!” Crombie exclaimed with fervor, worshiping the very furniture that surrounded Blanche.

“I hope we may become better acquainted.”

“Only I think, Mr. Crombie, he will owe you an apology now.”

“Why?”

“For keeping your shoes out so late.”

“My shoes!” said the young man, in vehement surprise.

“Why, yes.  Didn’t you know they came to him?  The porter said so.”

Crombie grew red with the sense of his disgrace in having his poverty-stricken boots come to the knowledge of the banker.  Really, his mortification was so great that the accident seemed to him to put an end to all his hopes of further relations with Blanche and her father.

“Oh, I assure you,” he said, rising, “that makes no difference at all!  I’m sorry I mentioned the matter.  Pray tell Mr. Littimer not to think of it.  I—­I believe I’d better go now, Miss Littimer.”

Blanche rose too, and Crombie was on the point of bowing a good-night, when the door opened, and a weary figure presented itself on the threshold; the figure of a short man with a spare face, and whiskers in which gray mingled with the sandy tint.  He had a pinched, half-growling expression, was draped in a light, draggled overcoat, and carried an umbrella, the ribs of which hung loose around the stick.

“There’s papa this moment!” cried Blanche.