“You bet I _can_,” I heard, “I feel _great_! Come on, little friend--” “You take my arm,” I ordered, and he did. And he insisted upon carrying the umbrella too, which we didn’t open, and every once in a while he leaned down so he could look under my hat, and then he would say, “You say you _aren’t_ homesick any more?” And I’d say, “No, not any more--” And he’d answer with, “That’s right. . . . You mustn’t be unhappy, you know! You just mustn’t be _that_!” We walked in an awfully funny way, because his stride was miles long, and of course mine had to be short. And when he tried to shorten his stride, it made him teeter like a Japanese official--I know about these because our choral society gave _The Mikado_ two years ago--while if I tried to accommodate my step to his I looked as if I were doing the bent knee walk the twins do, that lowers their bodies and shortens their legs and looks _awfully_ funny; and they always do it back of Roberta when she is all dressed up and starts out to do her fancy calling. So we hobbled and hitched along, and suddenly I laughed, and he laughed too, and then we were even better friends. It is strange, and very nice, I think, how laughter does this. [Illustration: “My name is Sam Deane,” he announced.] “My name is Sam Deane,” he announced, after our laughter had trailed off into a silence that had lasted past two fruit stores and a wine shop, “what is yours, if I may be so bold as to ask?” “Plain Jane Jones,” I answered. “I think yours is a really _nice_ name!” And then he told me that his wasn’t half as nice as mine, which was mere kindness, because there is nothing romantic or fancy about Jane or Jones; but, as Father said, there could be no Clytemnestras in a flock that was handicapped by the last name _he_ gave us! Then we reached the corner that would take us to the row of houses that backed on our court, and here we turned, and as we neared his house I kept getting more and more nervous, because I wanted to say something, and I didn’t know how to say it. That is a feeling that most women do not understand, but it comes to me often. Mr. Sam Deane helped me, because I think _he_ wanted to say something that _he_ couldn’t say; anyway, we stood for quite a few minutes before his door, and then suddenly he said, “I _am_ a dolt; I intend to see you around the block, of course; it’s much too late for you to walk alone.” “You _are_ just what you said you were,” I interrupted. “I’ve spent an hour getting you here; it would be too silly for you to try that! I’m going to take you up to your room, too--” “No,” he answered, “really, Little Miss Jane Jones, you’re _not_. I’ll call Gino. The other wouldn’t do at _all_!” Then his tone changed and he ended with, “How am I ever going to thank you?”