the side door of miss emery's shop was in brick passage, and not in the main street, so that a man, even a man of commanding stature and formidable appearance, might by insinuating himself into brick street, off king street, and then taking the passage from the quieter end, arrive at it without attracting too much attention. this course was adopted by john hessian. from the moment when he quitted his own house that friday evening in june he had been subject to the delusion that the collective eye of bursley was upon him. as a matter of fact, the collective eye of bursley is much too large and important to occupy itself exclusively with a single individual. bursley is not a village, and let no one think it. nevertheless, john was subject to the delusion.

the shop was shut, as he knew it would be. but the curtained window of the parlour, between the side-door and the small shuttered side-window of the shop, gave a strange suggestion of interesting virgin spotless domesticity within. john cast a fearful eye on the main thoroughfare. nobody seemed to be passing. the chapel-keeper of the wesleyan chapel on the opposite side of trafalgar road was refreshing the massive corinthian portico of that fane, and paying no regard whatever to the temple of eros which miss emery's shop had suddenly become.

so john knocked.

'i am a fool!' his thought ran as he knocked.

because he did not know what he was about. he had won the toss, and with it the right to approach annie emery before his brother. but what then? well, he did desire to marry her, quite as much for herself as for his sister's fortune. but what then? how was he going to explain the tepidity, the desertion, the long sin against love of ten years? in short, how was he going to explain the inexplicable? he could decidedly do nothing that evening except make a blundering ass of himself. and how soon would robert have the right to come along and say his say? that point had not been settled. points so extremely delicate cannot be settled on a slate, and he had not dared to broach it viva voce to his younger brother. he had been too afraid of a rebuff.

he then hoped that annie's servant would tell him that annie was out.

annie, however, took him at a disadvantage by opening the door herself.

'well, mr hessian!' she exclaimed, her face bursting into a swift and welcoming smile.

'i was just passing,' the donkey in him blundered forth. 'and i thought—'

however, in fifteen seconds he was on the domestic side of the sitting-room window, and seated in the antimacassared armchair between the fire-place and the piano, and annie had taken his hat and told him that her servant was out for the evening.

'but i'm disturbing your supper, miss emery,' he said. flurried though he was, he could not fail to notice the white embroidered cloth spread diagonally on the table, and the cold meat and the pastry and the glittering cutlery and crystal thereon.

'not at all,' she replied. 'you haven't had supper yet, i expect?'

'no,' he said, not thinking.

'it will be nice of you to help me to eat mine,' said she.

'oh! but really—'

but she got plates and things out of the cupboard below the bookcase—and there he was! she would take no refusal. it was wondrous.

'i'm awfully glad i came now,' his thought ran; i'm managing it rather well.'

and—

'poor bob!'

his sole discomfort was that he could not invent a sufficiently ingenious explanation of his call. you can't tell a woman you've called to make love to her, and when your previous call happens to have been ten years ago, some kind of an explanation does seem to be demanded. ultimately, as annie was so very pleased to see him, so friendly, so feminine, so equal to the occasion, he decided to let his presence in her abode that night stand as one of those central facts in existence that need no explanation. and they went on talking and eating till the dusk deepened and annie lit the gas and drew the blind.

he watched her on the sly as she moved about the room. he decided that she did not appear a day older. there was the same plump, erect figure, the same neatness, the same fair skin and fair hair, the same little nose, the same twinkle in the eye—only perhaps the twinkle in the eye was a trifle less cruel than it used to be. she was not a day older. (in this he was of course utterly mistaken; she was ten years older, she was thirty-three, with ten years of successful commercial experience behind her; she would never be twenty-three again. still she was a most desirable woman, and a woman infinitely beyond his deserts.) her air of general capability impressed him. and with that there was mingled a strange softness, a marvellous hint of a concealed wish to surrender.... well, she made him feel big and masculine—in brief, a man.

he regretted the lost ten years. his present way of life seemed intolerable to him. the new heaven opened its gate and gave glimpses of paradise. after all, he felt himself well qualified for that paradise. he felt that he had all along been a woman's man, without knowing it.

'by jove!' his thought ran. 'at this rate i might propose to her in a week or two.'

and again—

'poor old bobbie!'

a quarter of an hour later, in some miraculous manner, they were more intimate than they had ever been, much more intimate. he revised his estimate of the time that must elapse before he might propose to her. in another five minutes he was fighting hard against a mad impulse to propose to her on the spot. and then the fight was over, and he had lost. he proposed to her under the rose-coloured shade of the welsbach light.

she drew away, as though shot.

and with the rapidity of lightning, in the silence which followed, he went back to his original criticism of himself, that he was a fool. naturally she would request him to leave. she would accuse him of effrontery.

her lips trembled. he prepared to rise.

'it's so sudden!' she said.

bliss! glory! celestial joy! her words were at least equivalent to an absolution of his effrontery! she would accept! she would accept! he jumped up and approached her. but she jumped up too and retreated. he was not to win his prize so easily.

'please sit down,' she murmured. 'i must think it over,' she said, apparently mastering herself. 'shall you be at chapel next sunday morning?'

'yes,' he answered.

'if i am there, and if i am wearing white roses in my hat, it will mean—' she dropped her eyes.

'yes?' he queried.

and she nodded.

'and supposing you aren't there?'

'then the sunday after,' she said.

he thanked her in his hessian style.

'i prefer that way of telling you,' she smiled demurely. 'it will avoid the necessity for another—so much—you understand?...'

'quite so, quite so!' he agreed. 'i quite understand.'

'and if i do see those roses,' he went on, 'i shall take upon myself to drop in for tea, may i?'

she paused.

'in any case, you mustn't speak to me coming out of chapel, please.'

as he walked home down oldcastle street he said to himself that the age of miracles was not past; also that, after all, he was not so old as the tale of his years would mathematically indicate.