“Good night!” said Rutherford.

“Pleased to have met you. Good night.”

“Good night!” said Rutherford.

“Good night!”

“Come along, Gladys,” said Peggy, firmly.

Gladys went.

Rutherford sat down and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, feeling a little weak. He was not used to visitors.

II

He had lit his pipe, and was re-reading his night’s work preparatory to turning in, when there was another knock at the door. This time time there was no waiting. He was in the state of mind when one hears the smallest noise.

“Come in!” he cried.

It was Peggy.

Rutherford jumped to his feet.

“Won’t you—?” he began, pushing the chair forward.

She seated herself with composure on the table. She no longer wore the picture-hat, and Rutherford, looking at her, came to the conclusion that the change was an improvement.

“This’ll do for me,” she said. “Thought I’d just look in. I’m sorry about Gladys. She isn’t often like that. It’s the hot weather.”

“It is hot,” said Rutherford.

“You’ve noticed it? Bully for you! Back to the bench for Sherlock Holmes. Did Gladys try to shoot herself?”

“Good heavens, no! Why?”

“She did once. But I stole her gun, and I suppose she hasn’t thought to get another. She’s a good girl really, only she gets like that sometimes in the hot weather.” She looked round the room for a moment, then gazed unwinkingly at Rutherford. “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Rutherford Maxwell.”

“Gee! That’s going some, isn’t it? Wants amputation, a name like that. I call it mean to give a poor, defenceless kid a cuss-word like—what’s it? Rutherford? got it—to go through the world with. Haven’t you got something shorter—Tom, or Charles, or something?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The round, grey eyes fixed him again.

“I shall call you George,” she decided at last.