A cab was already waiting. Presently the door opened and a young lady in hood and cloak came out. The light fell on a delicate, piquante face, with a complexion of ivory fairness which cosmetics had not had time to destroy, with charming scarlet lips, long-lashed dark eyes, a dimpled chin, and a great quantity of curling dark hair--the kind of hair which will not lie straight, but twists itself into tight rings, and gets into apparently inextricable tangles, and looks pretty all the time. And this was Ethel Kenyon. Her companion, a woman of forty-five, staid and demure, followed close behind her, giving no sign of surprise when Oliver raised his hat and gently accosted the two ladies. "Good-evening, Miss Kenyon. Good-evening, Mrs. Durant: I hope you notice what a lovely evening it is!" "Indeed I do!" said Ethel, fervently. "Oh, how I wish I were in the country! I should like a long country walk." "Would not a town walk do as well, for once?" asked Oliver, in his most persuasive tones. "I was wondering whether you would consent to let me see you home, as it is such a lovely night. But I see you have a cab----" "I would rather drive, I must say," remarked Mrs. Durant. It was what she knew she was expected to say, and she was not sorry for it, "I am tired of being on my feet so long. But if you would like to walk, Ethel, I daresay Mr. Trent would escort you." "I should be only too pleased," said Oliver. Ethel laughed happily. "All right, Mrs. Durant. You drive, and I'll walk home with Mr. Trent." She scarcely waited for Oliver to offer his arm. She laid her hand in it so naturally, so securely, that even Oliver felt an impulse of pleasure. He looked down at the lovely, smiling creature at his side with admiration, even with tenderness. At first they did not speak much, for they had to pass through some crowded and ill-smelling thoroughfares, where conversation was almost impossible. By-and-bye they emerged from these into Holborn, and thence they made their way into the wider streets and airier squares which abound in the West Central district. When they came in sight of the white pillars and paved yard of the British Museum, they were deep in talk on all sorts of matters--"Shakespeare and the musical glasses," as Oliver afterwards laughingly remarked. But he did not choose that she should altogether guide the course of conversation. Now and then he took the reins into his own hands. And it amused him to see how readily she allowed him to direct matters. She responded to the slightest hint, was attentive to the least check. Such quickness of apprehension, he argued, meant only one thing in a woman: not intellectual faculty, but love. "And you still like the stage?" he said to her, after a time. "I like it immensely. I can express myself there as I could in no other sphere of life. People used to advise me to take to recitations: how glad I am that I stood out for what I liked best." "What one likes best is not always the safest path."