“I?  Not I!” said her brother, blowing out the candle as they entered the lamp-lit room.

It was a pretty room, and, with its blazing fire, looked very warm and snug after the cold, raw night without.  Miss Burgoyne threw off her cloak and hat, and set to work to supplement the supper that was already laid on the central table.  Her brother Jim—­who was a dawdling, good-natured-looking lad of about fifteen, clad in a marvellous costume of cricketing trousers, a “blazer” of overpowering blue and yellow stripes, and an Egyptian fez set far back on his forehead—­helped her to explore the contents of the cupboard; and very soon the three of them were seated at a comfortable and most welcome little banquet.  Indeed, the charming little feast was almost sumptuous; insomuch that Lionel was inclined to ask himself whether Miss Burgoyne, who was an astute young lady, had not foreseen the possibility of this small supper-party before leaving home in the afternoon.  The ousters, for example:  did Miss Burgoyne order a dozen ousters for herself alone every evening?—­for her brother declared that he never touched, and would not touch, any such thing.  Lionel observed that his own photograph, which he had recently given her, had been accorded the place of honor on the mantel-shelf; another portrait of him, which she had bought, stood on the piano.  But why these trivial suspicions, when she was so kind and hospitable and considerate?  She pressed things on him; she herself filled up his glass; she was as merry as possible, and talkative and good-humored.

“Just to think we’ve known each other so long, and you’ve never been in my house before!” she said.  “That’s a portrait of my younger sister you’re looking at—­isn’t she pretty?  It’s a pastel—­Miss Corkran’s.  Of course she is not allowed to sit up for me; only Jim does that; he keeps me company at supper-time, for I couldn’t sit down all by myself, could I, in the middle of the night?  Oh, yes, you must have some more.  I know gentlemen are afraid of champagne in a house looked after by a woman; but that’s all right; that was sent me as a Christmas present by Mr. Lehmann.”

“It is excellent,” Lionel assured her, “but I must keep my head clear if I am to find my way into Park Lane; after that, it will be easy enough getting home.”

“But there’s Jim’s room,” she exclaimed.

“Oh, no, thank you,” he said; “I shall get down there without any trouble.”

And then she went to a cabinet that formed part of a book-case, and returned with a cigar-box in her hand.

“I am not so sure of these,” she said.  “They are some I got when papa was last in town, and he seemed to think them tolerable.”

“Oh, but I sha’n’t smoke, thanks; no, no, I couldn’t think of it!” he protested.  “You’ll soon be coming down again to breakfast.”

“To please me, Mr. Moore,” she said, somewhat authoritatively.  “I assure you there’s nothing in the world I like so much as the smell of cigars.”