“He is naturally as harmless as a lamb,” I said; “but at a dance like this he considers it his duty to throw a little Continental abandon into his manner.”

Columbine looked at me thoughtfully, nodding her head, and slowly began to smile.

“You see,” I said, “the possibilities.”

“He shall have his dance,” she said decidedly.

“Thank you very much.  I should like to ask for another dance for myself later on, but I am afraid I should try to get out of you what he said, and that wouldn’t be fair.”

“Of course I shouldn’t tell you.”

“Well, anyhow, you’ll have had enough of us by then.  But softly—­he approaches, and I must needs fly, lest he should pierce my disguise.  Good-bye, and thank you so much.”

. . . . . . .

So I can’t say with authority what happened between Simpson and Columbine when they met.  But Simpson and I had a cigarette together afterwards and certain things came out; enough to make it plain that she must have enjoyed herself.

“Oh, I say, old chap,” he began jauntily, “do you know—­match, thanks—­er—­whereabouts is Finsbury Circus?”

“You’re too old to go to a circus now, Simpson.  Come and have a day at the Polytechnic instead.”

“Don’t be an ass; it’s a place like Oxford Circus.  I suppose it’s in the City somewhere?  I wonder,” he murmured to himself, “what she would be doing in the City at eleven o’clock in the morning.”

“Perhaps her rich uncle is in a bank, and she wants to shoot him.  I wish you’d tell me what you’re talking about.”

Simpson took off his mask and spectacles and wiped his brow.

“Dear old chap,” he said in a solemn voice, “in the case of a woman one cannot tell even one’s best friend.  You know how it is.”

“Well, if there’s going to be a duel you should have chosen some quieter spot than Finsbury Circus.  The motor-buses distract one’s aim.”

Simpson was silent for a minute or two.  Then a foolish smile flitted across his face, to be followed suddenly by a look of alarm.

“Don’t do anything that your mother wouldn’t like,” I said warningly.

He frowned and put on his mask again.

“Are chrysanthemums in season?” he asked casually.  “Anyhow, I suppose I could always get a yellow one?”

“You could, Simpson.  And you could put it in your button-hole, so that you can be recognized, and go to Finsbury Circus to meet somebody at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.  Samuel, I’m ashamed of you.  Er—­where do you lunch?”

“At the Carlton.  Old chap, I got quite carried away.  Things seemed to be arranged before I knew where I was.”

“And what’s she going to wear so that you can recognize her?”

“Yes,” said Simpson, getting up, “that’s the worst of it.  I told her it was quite out of date, and that only the suburbs wore fashions a year old, but she insisted on it.  I had no idea she was that sort of girl.  Well, I’m in for it now.”  He sighed heavily and went off for another ginger-ale.