“It doesn’t matter.  Let’s fix a day.  Would Saturday night suit you?”

“Yes, that’ll do.”

They made further arrangements, and then found themselves at the corner of the road in which she lived.  She gave him her hand, and he held it.

“I say, I do so awfully want to call you Mildred.”

“You may if you like, I don’t care.”

“And you’ll call me Philip, won’t you?”

“I will if I can think of it.  It seems more natural to call you Mr. Carey.”

He drew her slightly towards him, but she leaned back.

“What are you doing?”

“Won’t you kiss me good-night?” he whispered.

“Impudence!” she said.

She snatched away her hand and hurried towards her house.

Philip bought tickets for Saturday night.  It was not one of the days on which she got off early and therefore she would have no time to go home and change; but she meant to bring a frock up with her in the morning and hurry into her clothes at the shop.  If the manageress was in a good temper she would let her go at seven.  Philip had agreed to wait outside from a quarter past seven onwards.  He looked forward to the occasion with painful eagerness, for in the cab on the way from the theatre to the station he thought she would let him kiss her.  The vehicle gave every facility for a man to put his arm round a girl’s waist (an advantage which the hansom had over the taxi of the present day), and the delight of that was worth the cost of the evening’s entertainment.

But on Saturday afternoon when he went in to have tea, in order to confirm the arrangements, he met the man with the fair moustache coming out of the shop.  He knew by now that he was called Miller.  He was a naturalized German, who had anglicised his name, and he had lived many years in England.  Philip had heard him speak, and, though his English was fluent and natural, it had not quite the intonation of the native.  Philip knew that he was flirting with Mildred, and he was horribly jealous of him; but he took comfort in the coldness of her temperament, which otherwise distressed him; and, thinking her incapable of passion, he looked upon his rival as no better off than himself.  But his heart sank now, for his first thought was that Miller’s sudden appearance might interfere with the jaunt which he had so looked forward to.  He entered, sick with apprehension.  The waitress came up to him, took his order for tea, and presently brought it.

“I’m awfully, sorry” she said, with an expression on her face of real distress.  “I shan’t be able to come tonight after all.”

“Why?” said Philip.

“Don’t look so stern about it,” she laughed.  “It’s not my fault.  My aunt was taken ill last night, and it’s the girl’s night out so I must go and sit with her.  She can’t be left alone, can she?”

“It doesn’t matter.  I’ll see you home instead.”

“But you’ve got the tickets.  It would be a pity to waste them.”