Mr. Roy Anderson woke up the next morning to a large headache, which was not unusual after a night of heavy drinking. What he had not expected was to have the headache localized upon the back of his head rather than the front. He did not spend much time considering this eventuality but medicated the throbbing with a glass of sherry and dressed himself, racking his brains of what he had been up to the night before. He knew it began with at Darryl’s, and there had been a great deal of drinking and betting, but he had the vague impression that something more substantial had occurred.

As he let himself out of his room and began to walk downstairs towards the dining room a sense-memory arose of doing something similar in a much more disguised state the night before: of thrusting himself out past Darryl and his other friends and walking…somewhere. To find Pammy, he thought. He smiled.

As he reached the ground floor he saw a salver sitting on the small table by the door, with a number of letters piled on it. It appeared that the morning post had arrived before he had awoken—not in itself an unusual occurrence—and he swiped the lot up in a large fist before heading in to the dining room, where (as was usual on the morning after a spree) a single cup of coffee had been left steaming. His butler knew better than to encounter Mr. Anderson in the mood he was usually in during a hangover, so they had established this comfortable morning routine so that the butler could feel he had done his duty and Roy could feel cared for, but neither of them would say anything to the other that they might regret or that might cause them to be forced to terminate what had undeniably proven a good working relationship.

As he drank the coffee he flipped through the notes. Bills, mostly, or for the slightly less tradesman-like of his creditors, notes that suggested that perhaps Mr. Anderson might consider paying what they would under no circumstances call a bill but what might perhaps be even more urgent than one. He flipped these to the side, and was about to head out for the day when he noticed a small envelope stuck under the rest, with no stamp or frank, addressed to him in handwriting he did not recognize.

Curious, he ripped it open and began to read.

Dear Mr. Anderson,

I hope this letter finds you well-recovered. Lieutenant Schrute wishes me to express his profound hope that you are not seriously injured, but to inform you that he is not sorry for having dealt with you in the manner that appeared necessary at the time. I wish to inform you that it is my considered opinion that you owe my friend Mr. Halpert an apology, and that if you should refuse to provide him with one, or address yourself in this manner towards him again either he or I will be obliged to call you out. As I believe such an event would reflect well on neither us nor you, I trust I may count on your good judgement in this matter.

I remain, respectfully yours,

Mark, Viscount Banbury

What was Banbury doing writing to him? What had Schrute done? What had he himself done to Jim Halpert? Not that he’d mind doing something to Halpert, the little insinuating man who so clearly thought himself superior. He felt the bump that was undeniably growing on the back of his head, and it came back to him in a flash.

He’d gone to Halpert’s last night.

He’d told Pammy they should get married.

Something (he wasn’t quite sure what) had gone wrong. He’d become angry.

Someone (Schrute? Halpert?) had hit him.

Oh, someone was going to pay for this. He glanced at the letter again, disdainfully. He was damned if he was going to let Halpert or Schrute or this Banbury fellow walk all over him. He knew his rights, and he knew his interests, and he was not going away. Apologize to Halpert? What, for letting Halpert glom on to his fiancée? No thank you. He crumpled the letter into his pocket and strode out the door, heading to Halpert’s place. Someone was going to regret sending him that letter.

Jim Halpert awoke somewhat earlier than Roy, with no such pain in the head. In fact, he woke up feeling quite well. He had spent the rest of the evening with Pam Beesly, playing picquet, standing up to another dance, and generally drinking in as much of her presence as he could. He wasn’t sure that they’d been more than two feet apart for the rest of the evening, except during the turns of the country dance—which was fine with him.

She’d left around two, and he recalled promising to call upon her at Colonel Scott’s at his earliest convenience that next morning, to discuss—it was not entirely clear what, but certainly to see her again. He whistled an airy tune and stepped out onto the street, utterly uncaring what Roy or anyone else but Pam might think of him that day.

Mark had likewise awoken early—having sprawled Roy into a carriage and instructed the driver to hand his note to Mr. Anderson’s butler for delivery the next morning, his evening had come to a relatively quick close. He was well aware of Mr. Anderson’s temper—no friend of Miss Beesly’s could have missed it—but he was nevertheless hopeful that his note would be productive of some good. He had an appointment early that morning at Weston’s with Ryan Howard, to help his friend select a new waistcoat for an outing with the Kapoors later that week, and he was not late.

It was for these reasons that Roy Anderson found his quarry bolted when he came to Jim Halpert’s door that morning, and while he expressed a willingness to wait for either Mr. Halpert or the Viscount, the alert butler recognized the man at the door from the prior evening, and successfully intimated that he rather thought neither of his employers was likely to be present again until very late in the day, if at all. Unfortunately, he had no inkling that Roy’s next destination was likely to be Pam Beesly’s place of work, nor that in doing so he would naturally be admitted in as a frequent visitor to the premises, and find Miss Beesly entirely engrossed in conversation with just the man he had originally been seeking.

Pam was feeling unsettled—not because of Jim’s presence, which was in many ways the only solid thing she could rely on in this humbldy-tumbldy world, but because of her own uncertainty as to what had passed between her and Roy the previous evening. She was increasingly certain that she had grown beyond him, and that she had no lingering desire to marry him, but she was uncertain both whether he was aware of the fact or what his reaction to such a realization might be. She was, however, certain that if she did succeed in informing him of the change in her intentions, she could not afford to let Jim Halpert slip through her fingers. Not because she had any great unwillingness to become an old maid, but because the thought of living without him was already insufferable. So while she was unsettled inside she chatted gaily with her visitor, and lavished smiles upon him—smiles he enthusiastically returned.

It was in the midst of one of these smile sessions that she saw over his shoulder Roy enter the room, and stiffened. He turned and she could practically feel his body tense even though they were not at that moment in physical contact. They watched Roy enter the room silently, as one might watch a large strange dog encountered on the street.

This caution was utterly wasted on Roy, who bounded into the room with a full head of steam.

“What the devil are you doing here, Halpert?”

To his surprise, the response came not from Jim, but from Pam, who placed a small hand on Jim’s arm to restrain him—which contact was enough to check him before he could formulate a retort.

“Jim is here because I asked him to visit me this morning, Mr. Anderson.”

Roy ignored her, or at least ignored the hidden warning in her terms of address.

“I ought to call you out right here, by god.”

Jim found his voice, after a quick glance at Pam, who had not removed her hand from his arm. The change of terms she used for him and Roy had not slid by him, and he briefly considered mentioning it before realizing he should probably deal with the angry man in front of him before asking what she meant by it.

“Oh, I really do think you ought not.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t doubt it. Nor am I afraid of you. But it would be most rude to call me out in Colonel Scott’s home without letting him in on the fun, don’t you think? Pam, would you pull that bellcord and summon the butler? I’m sure he’d be happy to let the Colonel know, and then Mr. Anderson can continue with his train of thought.”

Pam’s eyes met his and she reached for the cord as Roy spoke.

“Da—dash it all, Halpert, I won’t let you fob me off like this.”

“I’m not trying to fob you off, I just don’t think you need to call me out—and if you do try, I feel, as a considerate guest, you owe Colonel Scott the chance to entertain himself by watching.”

“The entertainment! I don’t think you’re taking this entirely seriously.”

“Oh dear, should I be?”

Pam couldn’t contain herself, even though she knew she should, and giggled. Roy stared daggers.

“You know exactly why I’m calling you out! Dammit Halpert, you can’t steal my fiancée and…”

“So I’m your fiancée now? You seem to have been quite forgetful of the fact recently, including last night.”

Jim and Roy both turned to stare at Pam, who had found her words at last.

“It seems to me, Mr. Anderson, that last night you told me you were making me an offer.”

“Of course I was, Pammy, I…”

“Well, Mr. Anderson, I had hoped to avoid making this declaration in company, but as you seem to be under a substantial misapprehension. If you were my fiancée, you would hardly have need of making me an offer. And if, as you so pithily put it last night, the “first time didn’t count” and you are, in fact, making me an offer, I’m afraid that the answer is no.”

They heard a guffaw behind them, as Colonel Scott could not contain himself. Suddenly conscious of the scene he was making before an audience, Roy turned on his heel, pushed himself past Michael, and fled. Michael came forward and insisted on pounding Jim on the back.

“Congratulations, old boy! I knew I was doing something great when I introduced you two to each other! I take all the credit, you know, knew you were perfect for each other the first time I saw you! I say…”

“I’d say you’ve said enough, Michael” Jim interrupted his overenthusiastic patron.

“But I haven’t gotten to how much better a name Pamela Halpert is than Pamela Anderson!”

Jim grimaced to himself. “Yes, well, Michael, the thing is, she isn’t going to be Pamela Halpert.”

He caught Pam’s eye across the table and for the first time since meeting her couldn’t quite read the expression that he found there. She seemed to sense he was in need of help, though, and started up smoothly as if they had practiced it beforehand.

“Certainly not! So Michael, there’s no need for you to stay here.”

“But, I thought…”

Jim was still looking at Pam, and he saw the very beginnings of a blush start up from her chest, and it was suddenly very clear to him what needed to be done.

“Yes, Michael, well, I think you’d better be going. After all, who knows what mischief Roy might have gotten up to on his way out of the house! We definitely need someone big and strong like you to keep Pam safe and check in on Roy.”

Michael puffed his chest out and turned for the door. “You’re right! I can see I’m the only man for this job. You can count on me, Miss Beesly! Your servant, sir!”

As soon as he left Pam let loose the horrendous giggles that had been pent up in her chest and sprawled across the chaise longue in hysterics. Jim was unsure exactly what to do—the impulse to hold her warring with his awareness that while she’d obviously wanted Michael out of the room he still didn’t know how she felt about his automatic assumption (and Roy’s) that she was his now—so he gave in to his own sense of the absurd and chuckled, grinning. That was enough for her to pull herself upright on the seat and meet his eyes with her own, which let him in turn see that the blush had spread itself all across her face. Their eyes stayed caught for a long moment and they spoke at the same time.

“So, Miss Beesly…”

“Well, Mr. Halpert…”

They laughed again and this time she beat him to the punch.

“Well, Mr. Halpert, now that we’re alone, is there something you wanted to say?”