him of his hat, coat and stick and announced:

"Miss Vernon is w'itin' for you, sir."

"How the devil did I happen to let eight o'clock strike nine before I
knew it?" muttered the visitor. He was at the drawing-room door as he
concluded this self-addressed reproach, extending both hands toward the
young woman who came from the fireplace to meet him.

"How late you are, Hugh," she cried, half resentfully. He bent forward
and kissed her.

"Late? It isn't late, dear. I said I couldn't come before eight, didn't
I? Well, it's eight, isn't it?"

"It's nearly seventy minutes past eight, sir. I've been waiting and
watching the hands on the clock for just sixty minutes."

"I never saw such a perfect crank about keeping time as that
grandfatherly clock of yours. It hasn't skipped a second in two
centuries, I'll swear. You see, I was playing off the odd game with
Tom Ditton."

He dropped lazily into a big arm-chair, drove his hands into his pockets
and stretched out his long legs toward the grate.

"You might have come at eight, Hugh, on this night if no other. You knew
what important things we have to consider." Miss Vernon, tall and
graceful, stood before him with her back to the fire. She was
exceedingly pretty, this girl whom Hugh had kissed.