A certain spirituality had come into Bob Pillin’s face.  If only he could get that wheeze off:  “Phyllis is my only joy!” or even:  “Phyllis—­do you—­won’t you—­mayn’t I?” But nothing came—­nothing.

And suddenly she said: 

“Oh! don’t breathe so loud; it’s awful!”

“Breathe?  I wasn’t!”

“You were; just like Carmen when she’s dreaming.”

He had walked three steps towards the door, before he thought:  ’What does it matter?  I can stand anything from her; and walked the three steps back again.

She said softly: 

“Poor young man!”

He answered gloomily: 

“I suppose you realise that this may be the last time you’ll see me?”

“Why?  I thought you were going to take us to the theatre.”

“I don’t know whether your mother will—­after—–­”

Phyllis gave a little clear laugh.

“You don’t know mother.  Nothing makes any difference to her.”

And Bob Pillin muttered: 

“I see.”  He did not, but it was of no consequence.  Then the thought of Ventnor again ousted all others.  What on earth-how on earth!  He searched his mind for what he could possibly have said the other night.  Surely he had not asked him to do anything; certainly not given him their address.  There was something very odd about it that had jolly well got to be cleared up!  And he said: 

“Are you sure the name of that Johnny who came here yesterday was Ventnor?”

Phyllis nodded.

“And he was short, and had whiskers?”

“Yes; red, and red eyes.”

He murmured reluctantly: 

“It must be him.  Jolly good cheek; I simply can’t understand.  I shall go and see him.  How on earth did he know your address?”

“I expect you gave it him.”

“I did not.  I won’t have you thinking me a squirt.”

Phyllis jumped up.  “Oh!  Lawks!  Here’s mother!” Mrs. Larne was coming up the garden.  Bob Pillin made for the door.  “Good-bye,” he said; “I’m going.”  But Mrs. Larne was already in the hall.  Enveloping him in fur and her rich personality, she drew him with her into the drawing-room, where the back window was open and Phyllis gone.

“I hope,” she said, “those naughty children have been making you comfortable.  That nice lawyer of yours came yesterday.  He seemed quite satisfied.”

Very red above his collar, Bob Pillin stammered: 

“I never told him to; he isn’t my lawyer.  I don’t know what it means.”

Mrs. Larne smiled.  “My dear boy, it’s all right.  You needn’t be so squeamish.  I want it to be quite on a business footing.”

Restraining a fearful inclination to blurt out:  “It’s not going to be on any footing!” Bob Pillin mumbled:  “I must go; I’m late.”

“And when will you be able—–?”

“Oh!  I’ll—­I’ll send—­I’ll write.  Good-bye!” And suddenly he found that Mrs. Larne had him by the lapel of his coat.  The scent of violets and fur was overpowering, and the thought flashed through him:  ’I believe she only wanted to take money off old Joseph in the Bible.  I can’t leave my coat in her hands!  What shall I do?’