"Well," he said slowly, "I had met you three times--before Drummond's dinner." "Oh, Drummond's dinner!" she repeated. "You were there, were you?" He laughed a little impatiently. "Isn't that rather a strange question--under the circumstances?" he asked quietly. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words. Yet her embarrassment was only a passing thing. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. "We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground," she said. "It was perhaps my fault. You have not forgotten----" "I have forgotten nothing?" he answered, enigmatically. Anna hailed a bus. He looked at her reproachfully. The bus however was full. They fell into step again. More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison. "Last time I saw you," he reminded her, "you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London." "Quite true," she answered briskly, "and thanks to you I have succeeded." "Thanks to me," he repeated, puzzled. "I don't understand." "No? But it is very simple. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try--the music hall stage here." "You must admit," he declared, "that to us--who had seen you--the thought of your trying anything else was amazing." "At any rate," she declared, "your remarks decided me. I have an engagement with a theatrical agent--I believe for the 'Unusual'." "You are going to sing in London?" he said quietly. "Yes." For a moment or two he did not speak. Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face. "Tell me," she insisted, "why you look like that. You are afraid--that here in London--I shall not be a success. It is that, is it not?" "No," he answered readily. "It is not that. The idea of your being a failure would never have occurred to me." "Then why are you sorry that I am going to the 'Unusual'? I do not understand." Their eyes met for a moment. His face was very serious. "I am sorry," he said slowly. "Why, I do not know." "I positively insist upon knowing," she declared cheerfully. "The sooner you tell me the better." "It is very hard to explain," he answered. "I think that it is only an idea. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed--to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. I find you an impenetrable enigma. I find it impossible to associate you with--my little friend of the 'Ambassador's.' The things she said and did from you--seem impossible. I had a sort of idea," he went on, "that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky." There was a long silence. Then Anna spoke more seriously than usual.