“It’s too bad,” said Cradell.  “A man shouldn’t be asked to take his leave in May.  I never did, and what’s more, I never will.  I’d go to the Board first.”

Eames had escaped this evil without going to the Board, and had succeeded in obtaining for himself for his own holiday that month of October, which, of all months, is perhaps the most highly esteemed for holiday purposes.  “I shall go down by the mail-train to-morrow night,” he said to Amelia Roper, on the evening before his departure.  At that moment he was sitting alone with Amelia in Mrs Roper’s back drawing-room.  In the front room Cradell was talking to Mrs Lupex; but as Miss Spruce was with them, it may be presumed that Mr Lupex need have had no cause for jealousy.

“Yes,” said Amelia, “I know how great is your haste to get down to that fascinating spot.  I could not expect that you would lose one single hour in hurrying away from Burton Crescent.”

Amelia Roper was a tall, well-grown young woman, with dark hair and dark eyes;—­not handsome, for her nose was thick, and the lower part of her face was heavy, but yet not without some feminine attractions.  Her eyes were bright; but then, also, they were mischievous.  She could talk fluently enough; but then, also, she could scold.  She could assume sometimes the plumage of a dove; but then again she could occasionally ruffle her feathers like an angry kite.  I am quite prepared to acknowledge that John Eames should have kept himself clear of Amelia Roper; but then young men so frequently do those things which they should not do!

“After twelve months up here in London one is glad to get away to one’s own friends,” said Johnny.

“Your own friends, Mr Eames!  What sort of friends?  Do you suppose I don’t know?”

“Well, no.  I don’t think you do know.”

“L.  D.!” said Amelia, showing that Lily had been spoken of among people who should never have been allowed to hear her name.  But perhaps, after all, no more than those two initials were known in Burton Crescent.  From the tone which was now used in naming them, it was sufficiently manifest that Amelia considered herself to be wronged by their very existence.

“L.  S. D.,” said Johnny, attempting the line of a witty, gay young spendthrift.  “That’s my love—­pounds, shillings, and pence; and a very coy mistress she is.”

“Nonsense, sir.  Don’t talk to me in that way.  As if I didn’t know where your heart was.  What right had you to speak to me if you had an L. D. down in the country?”

It should be here declared on behalf of poor John Eames that he had not ever spoken to Amelia—­he had not spoken to her in any such phrase as her words seemed to imply.  But then he had written to her a fatal note of which we will speak further before long, and that perhaps was quite as bad,—­or worse.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Johnny.  But the laugh was assumed, and not assumed with ease.