The door was softly pushed ajar.

“Now, then—­come in, can’t you; who the deuce are you—­Beatrice!”

Enter Miss Miller, smiling.

“Oh, fie, Herbert! what naughty words, sir.”

“Beatrice, is it possible that it is you!  Where is your mother?  Are you alone?” looking nervously round at the door, whilst he caught her outstretched hand.

“Yes, I am quite alone; don’t be very shocked.  I know I am a horrid, bold girl to come all by myself to a man’s chambers; it’s dreadful, isn’t it!  Oh, what would people say of it if they knew—­why, even you look horrified!  But oh, Herbert, I did want to see you so.  I was determined to get at you somehow—­and now I am here for a whole hour; I have managed it beautifully—­no one will ever find out where I have been.  Mamma thinks I am driving with Lady Kynaston!”

And then she sat down and took off her veil, and told him all about it.

She had got at her lover, and she felt perfectly happy and secure, sitting there with his arm round her waist and her hand in his.  Not so Herbert.  He was pleased, of course, to see her, and called her by a thousand fond names, and he admired her courage and her spirit for breaking through the conventional trammels of her life in order to come to him; but he was horribly nervous all the same.  Supposing that boy were to come in from below, or the smiling tradesman, or, still worse, if the great Q.C. were to catch a glimpse of her as she went out, and recognize her from having met her in society, where would Miss Miller’s reputation be then?

“It is very imprudent of you—­most rash and foolish,” he kept on repeating; but he was glad to see her all the same, and kissed her between every other word.

“Now, don’t waste any more time spooning,” says Beatrice, with decision, drawing herself a little farther from him on the hard leather sofa.  “An hour soon goes, and I have plenty to say to you.  Herbert,” with great solemnity, “I mean to elope with you!”

Herbert gives an irrepressible start.

“Now! this minute?” he exclaims, in some dismay, and reflects swiftly that, just now he possesses exactly three pounds seven and sixpence in ready money.

“No; don’t be a goose; not now, because I haven’t any clothes.”  Herbert breathes more freely.  “But some day, very soon, before the end of the season.”

“But, my pet, you are not of age,” objects her lover; whilst sundry clauses in the laws concerning the marriages of minors without the consent of their parents pass hurriedly through his brain.

“What do I care about my age?” says Beatrice, with the recklessness of an impetuous woman bent upon having her own way.  “Of course, I don’t wish to do anything disreputable, or to make a scandal, but mamma is driving me to it by never allowing me to see you, and forbidding you to come to the house, and by encouraging all sorts of men whom she wants me to marry.”