“Yes, I have twenty pounds—here,” and she put her hand on her breast. I bowed. It was great deal more than I had expected. “And what are your plans?” Yes, I know. My question was the most clumsy, the most idiotic one I could have put. She had been so tame, so confiding, letting me, at any rate spiritually speaking, hold her tiny quivering body in one hand and stroke her furry head—and now, I’d thrown her away. Oh, I could have kicked myself. She stood up. “I have no plans. But—it’s very late. You must go now, please.” How could I get her back? I wanted her back. I swear I was not acting then. “Do feel that I am your friend,” I cried. “You will let me come to-morrow, early? You will let me look after you a little—take care of you a little? You’ll use me just as you think fit?” I succeeded. She came out of her hole . . . timid . . . but she came out. “Yes, you’re very kind. Yes. Do come to-morrow. I shall be glad. It makes things rather difficult because—” and again I clasped her boyish hand—“_je ne parle pas français._” Not until I was half-way down the boulevard did it come over me—the full force of it. Why, they were suffering . . . those two . . . really suffering. I have seen two people suffer as I don’t suppose I ever shall again. . . . Of course you know what to expect. You anticipate, fully, what I am going to write. It wouldn’t be me, otherwise. I never went near the place again. Yes, I still owe that considerable amount for lunches and dinners, but that’s beside the mark. It’s vulgar to mention it in the same breath with the fact that I never saw Mouse again. Naturally, I intended to. Started out—got to the door—wrote and tore up letters—did all those things. But I simply could not make the final effort. Even now I don’t fully understand why. Of course I knew that I couldn’t have kept it up. That had a great deal to do with it. But you would have thought, putting it at its lowest, curiosity couldn’t have kept my fox-terrier nose away . . . _Je ne parle pas français._ That was her swan song for me. But how she makes me break my rule. Oh, you’ve seen for yourself, but I could give you countless examples. . . . Evenings, when I sit in some gloomy café, and an automatic piano starts playing a “mouse” tune (there are dozens of tunes that evoke just her) I begin to dream things like . . . A little house on the edge of the sea, somewhere far, far away. A girl outside in a frock rather like Red Indian women wear, hailing a light, barefoot boy who runs up from the beach. “What have you got?” “A fish.” I smile and give it to her. . . . The same girl, the same boy, different costumes—sitting at an open window, eating fruit and leaning out and laughing. “All the wild strawberries are for you, Mouse. I won’t touch one.” . . . A wet night. They are going home together under an umbrella. They stop on the door to press their wet cheeks together.