Max looked at his sister with a curious expression. Was she right? Had
he, in that adventurous thirty-six hours in London, seen somebody who
took the color out of all the other girls he had ever met? He asked
himself this question when Queenie's shrewd eyes met his, and he
remembered the strange sensation he had felt at the touch of Carrie's
hand, at the sound of her voice.

Before he could answer his sister, Mr. Wedmore spoke impatiently:

"Rubbish!" cried he, testily. "Every young man thinks it the proper
thing to talk like that, as if no girl was good enough for him. Miss
Appleby is a charming girl, and she will find plenty of admirers without
waiting for Max's valuable adoration."

He had much better not have spoken, blundering old papa that he was. And
both daughters thought so, as they saw Max raise his eyebrows and gather
in all the details of the little plot in one sweeping glance at the
faces around him. He drank his coffee, but he could not eat. Doreen sat
watching him, ready to spring upon him at the first possible moment, and
to carry him off for the _tête-à-tête_ he was so anxious to put off.

What should he tell his sister of that adventure of his in the slums of
the East End? Would she be satisfied if he told a white lie, if he said
he had found out nothing?

Max felt that Doreen would not be satisfied if he got himself out of the
difficulty like that. In the first place, she would not believe him. He
saw that her quick eyes had been watching him since his return, and he
felt that he had been unable to hide the fact that something of greater
significance had occurred during that brief stay in town. What then