“Halloa,” he said, airily, as he took a seat.  “Don’t mind me, young people.  Go on just as you would if I were not here.”

Mr. Edward Silk grumbled something under his breath; Miss Kybird, turning to the intruder with a smile of welcome, remarked that she had just thought of going to sleep.

“Going to sleep?” repeated Mr. Silk, thunder-struck.

“Yes,” said Miss Kybird, yawning.

Mr. Silk gazed at her, open-mouthed.  “What, with me ’ere?” he inquired, in trembling tones.

“You’re not very lively company,” said Miss Kybird, bending over her sewing.  “I don’t think you’ve spoken a word for the last quarter of an hour, and before that you were talking of death-warnings.  Made my flesh creep, you did.”

“Shame!” said Mr. Nugent.

“You didn’t say anything to me about your flesh creeping,” muttered Mr. Silk.

“You ought to have seen it creep,” interposed Mr. Nugent, severely.

“I’m not talking to you,” said Mr. Silk, turning on him; “when I want the favour of remarks from you I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t you talk to my gentlemen friends like that, Teddy,” said Miss Kybird, sharply, “because I won’t have it.  Why don’t you try and be bright and cheerful like Mr. Nugent?”

Mr. Silk turned and regarded that gentleman steadfastly; Mr. Nugent meeting his gaze with a pleasant smile and a low-voiced offer to give him lessons at half a crown an hour.

“I wouldn’t be like ’im for worlds,” said Mr. Silk, with a scornful laugh.  “I’d sooner be like anybody.”

“What have you been saying to him?” inquired Nugent.

“Nothing,” replied Miss Kybird; “he’s often like that.  He’s got a nasty, miserable, jealous disposition.  Not that I mind what he thinks.”

Mr. Silk breathed hard and looked from one to the other.

“Perhaps he’ll grow out of it,” said Nugent, hopefully.  “Cheer up, Teddy.  You’re young yet.”

“Might I arsk,” said the solemnly enraged Mr. Silk, “might I arsk you not to be so free with my Christian name?”

“He doesn’t like his name now,” said Nugent, drawing his chair closer to Miss Kybird’s, “and I don’t wonder at it.  What shall we call him?  Job?  What’s that work you’re doing?  Why don’t you get on with that fancy waistcoat you are doing for me?”

Before Miss Kybird could deny all knowledge of the article in question her sorely tried swain created a diversion by rising.  To that simple act he imparted an emphasis which commanded the attention of both beholders, and, drawing over to Miss Kybird, he stood over her in an attitude at once terrifying and reproachful.

“Take your choice, Amelia,” he said, in a thrilling voice.  “Me or ’im—­ which is it to be?”

[Illustration:  “Me or ’im—­which is it to be?”]

“Here, steady, old man,” cried the startled Nugent.  “Go easy.”

“Me or ’im?” repeated Mr. Silk, in stern but broken accents.