This girl was civil, obliging. I was contrasting her with the Broadway and the American type generally--hard, cynical little animals. The English, from prostitutes to queens, must have an innate sense of fair play in the social relationship of live and let live. I say this in all sincerity and with the utmost feeling of respect for the nation that has produced it. They ought to rule, by right of courtesy. Alas, I fear me greatly that the force and speed of the American, his disregard for civility and the waste of time involved, will change all this. In the taxi I did not touch her, though she moved over near to me in that desire to play her rôle conscientiously line by line, scene by scene. “Have we far to go?” I asked perfunctorily. “Not very, only a little way.” “How much ought the cab charge to be?” “Not more than eight or ten pence, sir.” Then, “Do you like girls, sir?” she asked quaintly in a very human effort to be pleasant under the circumstances. “No,” I replied, lying cautiously. She looked at me uncertainly--a little over-awed, I think. I was surely a strange fish to swim into her net anyhow. “Very likely you don’t like me then?” “I am not sure that I do. How should I know? I never saw you before in my life. I must say you have mighty nice eyes,” was my rather banal reply. “Do you think so?” She gave me a sidelong, speculative look. “What nationality are you?” I asked. “I’m Welsh,” she replied. “I didn’t think you were English exactly. Your tone is softer.” The taxi stopped abruptly and we got out. It was a shabby-looking building with a tea- or coffee-room on the ground floor, divided into small rooms separated by thin, cheap, wooden partitions. The woman who came to change me a half sovereign in order that I might pay the driver, was French, small and cleanly looking. She was pleasant and brisk and her whole attitude reassured me at once. She did not look like a person who would conspire to rob, and I had good reason to think more clearly of this as we came out later. “This way,” said my street girl, “we go up here.” And I followed her up two flights of thinly carpeted stairs into a small dingy room. It was clean, after the French fashion. “It’s not so bad?” she asked with a touch of pride. “No. Not at all.” “Will you pay for the room, please?” The landlady had followed and was standing by. I asked how much and found I was to be charged five shillings which seemed a modest sum.