“Let’s lean over that railing and watch the boats,” he suggested.

There were scarcely any boats moving, to be seen.  He spoke at random, as if the river swarmed with them; but only a little tug now and then scurried like a water-rat out of the shadows of the bridge, and sped down along towards Chiswick.  In its wake, spreading out in ever-broadening lines, it left a row of curling waves that came lapping to the steps below them.  These sounds and the occasional noise of voices across on the Kew side, were the only interruptions to the silence.  For some moments they stood there, leaning on the railing, saying nothing, watching some dull, dark figures of men who were moving about on the little island that belongs to the Thames Conservancy.

“I—­I’ve got something I want to tell you, Miss Bishop,” Mr. Arthur said at length with sudden resolve.

Sally caught her breath.  If it were only somebody she could love!  What a moment it would be then—­what a moment!  Her lips felt suddenly dry.  She sucked them into her mouth and moistened them.

“What is it?” she asked.

Mr. Arthur coughed, pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.  The sound, intensified there in that still place, jarred through Sally’s senses.  She roughly told herself that she was a fool.

“You know I’m in a bank?” he began.

“Yes; of course.”

“It’s a private bank.”

“Really?”

“Yes; what I mean is, they pay better than most banks usually do.”

“Really?”

“And they’re going to make me a cashier.”

“Oh, is that good?”

“Well, there’s hardly a fellow of my age in any bank that’s got to a responsible position like that, in the time I have.  I bet you a shilling there isn’t.”

“Well, I can’t afford to bet a shilling on it.”

“No, of course not; I didn’t mean that.  What I mean—­”

“I understand what you mean,” said Sally.  A sense of humour might have gone far to save him at that moment.  She accredited it against him that he had none.  “You might just as well have bet ten pounds,” she added with a smile, “and I should have known what you meant.  Ten pounds always sounds better than a shilling—­even in that sort of—­of—­transaction.”

“Ah, you’re only joking,” said he.

“No, I’m not,” she replied.  “I’m quite serious.  I like the sound of ten pounds better.  There’s a nice ring of bravado about it.  A shilling seems so mean.”

For a few moments he was silenced by the weight of her incomprehensibleness.  Such a moment comes at all times to every man, whatever his dealings with a woman may be.  Mr. Arthur stood leaning on the railing, looking out at the black water and thinking how little she understood of the seriousness of his position, or the meaning that such an uplifting of his financial status conveyed to a man.  She did not even know what he was about to propose.  It