“Who was it that told her of you?”

“Oh, one of our girls, no doubt.  I haven’t asked her—­never thought again about it.”

“And what’s her record?”

“Nothing dramatic in it, I’m glad to say.  At one time she had an engagement in London for a year or two.  Her people, ’poor but honest’—­as the stories put it.  Father was a timekeeper at Dudley; brother, a mechanic there.  I was over to see her yesterday; we had only just said good-bye when I met you.  She’s remarkably well educated, all things considered:  very fond of reading; knows as much of books as I do—­more, I daresay.  First-rate intelligence; I guessed that from the first.  I can see the drawbacks, of course.  As I said, she isn’t what you would call a lady; but there’s nothing much to find fault with even in her manners.  And the long and the short of it is, I’m in love with her.”

“And she has promised to marry you?”

“Well, not in so many words.  She seems to have scruples—­ difference of position, and that kind of thing.”

“Very reasonable scruples, no doubt.”

“Quite right that she should think of it in that way, at all events.  But I believe it was practically settled yesterday.  She isn’t in very brilliant health, poor girl!  I want to get her away from that beastly place as soon as possible.  I shall give myself a longish holiday, and take her on to the Continent.  A thorough change of that kind would set her up wonderfully.

“She has never been on to the Continent?”

“What a preposterous question!  You’re going to sleep, sitting here in the dark.  Oh, don’t trouble to light up for me; I can’t stay much longer.”

Hilliard had risen, but instead of lighting the lamp he turned to the window and stood there drumming with his fingers on a pane.

“Are you seriously concerned for me?” said his friend.  “Does it seem a piece of madness?”

“You must judge for yourself, Narramore.”

“When you have seen her I think you’ll take my views.  Of course it’s the very last thing I ever imagined myself doing; but I begin to see that the talk about fate isn’t altogether humbug.  I want this girl for my wife, and I never met any one else whom I really did want.  She suits me exactly.  It isn’t as if I thought of marrying an ordinary, ignorant, low-class girl.  Eve—­that’s her name—­is very much out of the common, look at her how you may.  She’s rather melancholy, but that’s a natural result of her life.”

“No doubt, as you say, she wants a thorough change,” remarked Hilliard, smiling in the gloom.

“That’s it.  Her nerves are out of order.  Well, I thought I should like to tell you this, old chap.  You’ll get over the shock in time.  I more than half believe, still, that your moral indignation was genuine.  And why not?  I ought to respect you for it.”

“Are you going?”

“I must be in Bristol Road by five—­promised to drink a cup of Mrs. Stocker’s tea this afternoon.  I’m glad now that I have kept up a few homely acquaintances; they may be useful, Of course I shall throw over the Birchings and that lot.  You see now why my thoughts have been running on a country house!”