“Wouldn’t you like to take the two of us?” she asked with that quaint odd accent of the Welsh. Her voice was soft and her eyes were as blue and weak in their force as any unsophisticated girl’s might well be. “This girl isn’t hard and vulgar,” I said to myself. I suppose we all pride ourselves on knowing something of character in women. I thought I did. “No,” I replied rather directly to her question. “Not to-night. But let’s you and I go somewhere for dinner.” “Would you mind givin’ my friend a shillin’?” she asked. “Not at all,” I replied. “There you are.” It was a wet night, chill and dreary, and on second thought I made it half-a-crown. The second girl went away--a girl with a thin white face--and I turned to my companion. “Now,” I said, “what shall we do?” It was nearly eight o’clock and I was wondering where I could go with such a girl to dine. Her clothes, I perceived, were a mere patchwork. Her suit was of blue twill, worn shiny. She wore the cheapest kind of a feather boa and her hat was pathetic. But the color of her cheeks was that wonderful apple color of the English and her eyes--really her eyes were quite a triumph of nature--soft and deep blue, and not very self-protective. “Poor little storm-blown soul,” I thought as I looked at her. “Your life isn’t much. A vague, conscienceless thing (in the softer sense of that word). You have a chilly future before you.” She looked as though she might be nineteen. “Let’s see! Have you had your dinner?” I asked. “No, sir.” “Where is there a good restaurant? Not too smart, you know.” “Well, there’s L.’s Corner House.” “Oh, yes, where is that? Do you go there yourself, occasionally?” “Oh, yes, quite often. It’s very nice, I think.” “We might go there,” I said. “Still, on second thought, I don’t think we will just now. Where is the place you go to--the place you take your--friends?” “It’s at No. -- Great Titchfield Street.” “Is that an apartment or a hotel?” “It’s a flat, sir, my flat. The lady lets me bring my friends there. If you like, though, we could go to a hotel. Perhaps it would be better.” I could see that she was uncertain as to what I would think of her apartment. “And where is the hotel? Is that nice?” “It’s pretty good, sir, not so bad.” I smiled. She was holding a small umbrella over her head. “We had better take a taxi and get out of this rain.” I put up my hand and hailed one. We got in, the driver obviously realizing that this was a street liaison, but giving no sign. London taxi-drivers, like London policemen, are the pink of civility.