The schoolmaster went his way, brooding and brooding, and a sense of being vanquished in a struggle might have been pieced out of his worried face. Truly, in his breast there lingered a resentful shame to find himself defeated by this passion for Charley Hexam’s sister, though in the very selfsame moments he was concentrating himself upon the object of bringing the passion to a successful issue.

He appeared before the dolls’ dressmaker, sitting alone at her work. “Oho!” thought that sharp young personage, “it’s you, is it? I know your tricks and your manners, my friend!”

“Hexam’s sister,” said Bradley Headstone, “is not come home yet?”

“You are quite a conjuror,” returned Miss Wren.

“I will wait, if you please, for I want to speak to her.”