"Tell you she won't look at me."

Mr. Moss laughed. Enjoyed the "score" over his host for a few moments,
and then:

"Tell you what it is, old bird," said he, "you're going the wrong way
about it. I know another case just the same. Chap out Wimbledon way.
His people kept a girl--topper she was, too--dark. He was always
messing round just like you are, and she was stand-offish as a nun.
One night he came home early, a bit screwed--people out--girl in. Met
her in the drawing-room. Almost been afraid to speak to her before.
Had a bit of fizz on board him now--_you_ know; didn't care a rip for
anybody. Gave her a smacking great kiss, and, by Gad!--well, she _was_
all right. Told him she'd always stood off up to then because she was
never quite sure what he meant--afraid he didn't mean anything, and
that she might get herself into no end of a row if she started playing
around. Same with this little bit of goods, I'll lay."

Bob was interested. "Shouldn't be surprised if you're right," he said;
and moodily cogitated upon the line of action prescribed.

Mr. Moss offered to bet that where girls were concerned he was never
far wrong. "Slap-dash style is what they like," he remarked, and with
a careless "It's all they understand" dismissed the subject.

It remained, however, in Bob's mind throughout the evening; sprang
instantly when, after breakfast upon the following day, he caught a
glimpse of Mary as he prepared for the City.

Standing for a moment in the hall, it occurred to him that this very