When next they went to a theatre together he was more familiar with her than before, but careful to say nothing which might shock her. He brought her home in a taxi, and took her right up into her sitting-room.

That worried her; she felt that she ought not to allow it, but how difficult it was to know what to do! She was convinced of his good intentions; his attitude was one of sympathetic friendship. She thought, How kind it is of him to try to cheer me up like this! She had come to believe that she was dull and stupid; even she undervalued her beauty, and the fascination of her smile. That made Wendell’s attentions more kind, more altruistic. To say, You may not come up to my room at this time in the evening, was to insult him. She could not do that. She had no reason to impute evil motives to him; it seemed impossible to part from him on the doorstep without wounding his feelings. He handed her out of the taxi, and said, Give me your latch-key, Betty. She gave it, and he opened the front-door for her to enter. They stood in the hall under a faded oleograph, and Wendell said lightly,

“I’ll see you up the stairs. Who knows? There might be a bogy round the corner.” He took her arm and led her upstairs. Within her sitting-room, she stood irresolute, hoping that he would say goodnight and go. Instead, he said coaxingly, “Can I stay for a few minutes and talk over the play? It’s not late. Oh, I say, tea?”

She always made tea for herself before going to bed. The kettle was on the grate, the tray ready upon the table. She could not tell Wendell to go; it would be so rude and so ungracious.

“Just a few minutes then,” she said. “Do smoke!”

He sat down and offered his cigarette-case to Elizabeth.

“Don’t you ever?” he asked.

“No. Never.”

“Why not? Don’t you like it?”

“I’ve never tried,” she confessed.

“Good Lord! You’d better start, old thing.”

“I don’t think I dare. Supposing I felt ill?”

“What rot! Do take one, Betty! It’s so dull to smoke alone!”