It was all very well for a young man of an almost painfully circumspect type to rescue a youthful female from danger. It was a different matter, however, when he found himself walking along a crowded thoroughfare, leading a waif in a fantastic and almost shabby dress, and bringing upon himself the curious, if not the suspicious, glances of passers-by. This fact struck Baron forcibly and unpleasantly. “Come, let’s get inside somewhere,” he said to his companion. He spoke almost abjectly, as if he had been a soldier seeking a hiding-place behind a wall. “This place will do!” He had espied a haven in the form of a restaurant, deserted by all save two or three young women wearing waitresses’ aprons and caps. Bonnie May looked at him inquiringly, almost piteously. This movement was a mere strategy, she realized. It was not a time for eating. But the ready speech of half an hour ago had deserted her, and she entered the restaurant, when Baron opened the door for her, without saying a word. Indeed she stood so forlornly and dependently that her companion realized anew that he had somehow committed an enormous blunder. “Sit down somewhere,” he said almost impatiently; and when he noted the childish effort with which she wriggled into her chair, and tried heroically to assume a debonair manner, a feeling deeper than mere irritation seized him. “Darn the luck!” he ruminated; “she’s so little, and so lovely--what’s a fellow to do in such a case, anyway?” “It doesn’t seem quite a suitable time to be eating, does it?” she observed politely. The words were accompanied by a gently deprecatory smile which amazed Baron by a quality of odd sophistication and practised self-restraint. “We needn’t eat anything,” he said, more cordially. “I think we ought to order something to drink. You see, I have to decide what to do.” She adjusted certain articles on the table with feminine nicety. “That’s very good of you, I’m sure,” she said. “What is?” “I mean your taking an interest in me.” “An interest in you! What else can I do?” She propped her face up in the palms of her hands and looked across the table at him meditatively. “Don’t!” he exclaimed. “I’m not used to having a cherub on my hands. It’s my own predicament I’m thinking about, not yours. Do you drink milk?” A waitress had approached and was standing behind them. She resented his brusque manner, now that the waitress was there to hear. “I have done such a thing,” she said. “As a rule I’m permitted to choose for myself.” “Well, by all means do, then.” She turned to the waitress and lowered her voice by a full tone. “A cup of chocolate, please; not too thick; and some wafers.” She faced Baron again with a ready change of countenance and voice, and touched upon some trivial subject which he recognized as a formal means of dispelling any impression that there was something unusual in their relationship or appearance.