In the black and tortuous streets, in the chilly and silent night, her warmth as she clung to him seemed to envelop him, and her subtle and comfortable Eastern perfume was round them, as it were an invisible cloud. He appeared to hang back a little, and she, leaning her body forward, her face back to him, to draw him along, as in a picture a nymph might lead away a stripling into scented obscurities into leafy woods. “I might say,” Dudley Leicester was urged to a sudden lucidity, “that I couldn’t have called you a penguin because I never rightly knew what a penguin was.” “Oh, but you did once,” she said. “It is one of the things you have forgotten.” She laughed. “So many things you had forgotten, but you are remembering them now.” She laughed again. “Now you’ll remember how you came to know what a penguin was. On that day--the day of the evening we went to the Monday Pop--we went to the Zoo. It was you who wanted to go there to be alone with me; you considered that the Zoo in that weather would be the most solitary place in London--the hard frost that it was. Colder than this, colder than you are now. You’re thawing a little, you stiff creature....” She shivered under her cloak. “We stopped most of the time with the monkeys, but we saw the penguins, too. Don’t you remember?” “I don’t,” he answered. “I don’t want to. It would not have been like me to call you a penguin. You’re not like one.” “Ah,” she said, “when you’re in love you don’t bother about likenesses. I’ll bet you called your wife a penguin before you married her, or a tooth-brush, or a puff-ball. I’ve heard that men always transfer their pet names from woman to woman.” He attempted to blurt out that she was to leave Pauline out of it, but she cried: “Oh, you traitor! You _have_ called her one of these names. Couldn’t you have kept them sacred? Isn’t anything sacred to a man? I loved you so, and you loved me. And then...” The memory of their past lives came suddenly over him. “Go away,” she said--“go away.” “I must see you to your door,” he muttered, with a sense of guilt, and stood irresolutely, for she had torn her arm from his. “I don’t want you,” she called out. “Can’t I walk twenty steps without you?” And she began to glide swiftly away, with him doggedly on the very edge of the pavement beside her. Suddenly she slackened her steps. “What did you give me up for, Dudley Leicester?” she said. “What did you do it for? I cared more for your little finger than for all the heads of all the other men. You knew it well enough. You know it now. You _feel_ like a coward. Don’t tell me you feared for the sanctity of your hearth. You knew me well enough. What I was then I am now.” She paused, and then she brought out: