“How are you going home?” she said when they were on the pavement. “Walk,” he replied briefly. “But it's raining hard--would you accept a lift?” He opened the swing doors for her, shielding her dress from the muddy wheels as she entered, and then hesitated a moment. He had in fact been intending to pay one of his midnight visits to his South Kensington friends, but Clytie thought his hesitation was due to considerations of propriety. She laughed with a little thrill of defiance as she settled herself comfortably in a corner. The touch of rebelliousness let loose an unwonted shaft of coquetry. “Of course if you think it would do you more good to walk in the rain than drive dry with me----” The interval between her two remarks had been very short, taken up entirely with the process of Clytie's seating herself in the cab, but still Kent felt he had been somewhat unchivalrous. “If you really don't mind, I shall be very grateful,” he said by way of making amends as he took his seat by her side. After all, driving with Clytie was not unpleasant, he reflected, and he could see Wither and Fairfax any day. That Clytie should have made her offer did not seem unnatural. He frankly informed her of the cause of his hesitation. “I paid you the compliment of being mistaken,” said Clytie. “What do you mean?” he asked, catching a glimpse of her face in the swift gleam of a gas-lamp. She was smiling, in good humour. “Oh! if you are mystified, so much the better,” she exclaimed, “It will be my little revenge.” And that was all the explanation she vouchsafed him.