So that evening, when her “turn” was over, I made up my mind to go round and call upon her.  I had told Cecil Holsworthy my intentions beforehand, and it rather shocked him.  He was too much of a gentleman to wish to spy upon the girl he had promised to marry.  However, in my case, there need be no such scruples.  I found the house and asked for Miss Montague.  As I mounted the stairs to the drawing-room floor, I heard a sound of voices—­the murmur of laughter; idiotic guffaws, suppressed giggles, the masculine and feminine varieties of tomfoolery.

“You’d make a splendid woman of business, you would!” a young man was saying.  I gathered from his drawl that he belonged to that sub-species of the human race which is known as the Chappie.

“Wouldn’t I just?” a girl’s voice answered, tittering.  I recognised it as Sissie’s.  “You ought to see me at it!  Why, my brother set up a place once for mending bicycles; and I used to stand about at the door, as if I had just returned from a ride; and when fellows came in, with a nut loose or something, I’d begin talking with them while Bertie tightened it.  Then, when they weren’t looking, I’d dab the business end of a darning-needle, so, just plump into their tires; and of course, as soon as they went off, they were back again in a minute to get a puncture mended!  I call that business.”

A roar of laughter greeted the recital of this brilliant incident in a commercial career.  As it subsided, I entered.  There were two men in the room, besides Miss Montague and her mother, and a second young lady.

“Excuse this late call,” I said, quietly, bowing.  “But I have only one night in Scarborough, Miss Montague, and I wanted to see you.  I’m a friend of Mr. Holsworthy’s.  I told him I’d look you up, and this is my sole opportunity.”

I felt rather than saw that Miss Montague darted a quick glance of hidden meaning at her friends the chappies; their faces, in response, ceased to snigger and grew instantly sober.

She took my card; then, in her alternative manner as the perfect lady, she presented me to her mother.  “Dr. Cumberledge, mamma,” she said, in a faintly warning voice.  “A friend of Mr. Holsworthy’s.”

The old lady half rose.  “Let me see,” she said, staring at me.  “Which is Mr. Holsworthy, Siss?—­is it Cecil or Reggie?”

One of the chappies burst into a fatuous laugh once more at this remark.  “Now, you’re giving away the whole show, Mrs. Montague!” he exclaimed, with a chuckle.  A look from Miss Sissie immediately checked him.

I am bound to admit, however, that after these untoward incidents of the first minute, Miss Montague and her friends behaved throughout with distinguished propriety.  Her manners were perfect—­ I may even say demure.  She asked about “Cecil” with charming naivete.  She was frank and girlish.  Lots of innocent fun in her, no doubt—­she sang us a comic song in excellent taste, which is a severe test—­but not a suspicion of double-dealing.  If I had not overheard those few words as I came up the stairs, I think I should have gone away believing the poor girl an injured child of nature.