"I suppose," Mr. Spokesly remarked, and fixed his eyes upon the extremely decorative Scotch travelling rug which covered the woman's limbs, "I suppose he doesn't go off every evening and leave you here." He spoke jocosely. Mrs. Dainopoulos looked out into the darkness. There was a faint colour in her cheeks, as though the sudden revelation of the passion she could evoke had filled her with exquisite shame. Or perhaps pride. Her clear, delicate English face, the mouth barely closed, the short straight nose slightly raised, the brown hair spread in a slight disorder upon the pillow, were surely indicating pride. Some inkling of this possibility came to Mr. Spokesly, and he sat regarding her, while he waited for her to speak, and wondering how a woman like her had come to marry one of these here dagoes. Peculiar creatures, women, Mr. Spokesly thought; knowing nothing whatever about them, it may be mentioned. And when Mrs. Dainopoulos turned to look at him, soon after she began to speak, the prevailing fancy at the back of his mind was "She thinks I don't know anything about the ladies! Fancy that!" "His business takes him out a good deal," she said in a low voice, "but he wouldn't go if he could help it. To-night is unusual." "The pleasure is mine," said Mr. Spokesly. "Not altogether," she smiled, and her speech became perceptibly more racy and rapid. "Don't flatter yourself. Mr. Dainopoulos was thinking of me." "I dare say he does a good deal of that." The woman on the sofa laced her fingers lightly and regarded her guest afresh. "You are saucy," she murmured with a faint smile. Mr. Spokesly smiled more broadly. He was saucy, but he was certainly at home now with his companion. There was in her last speech, in the accent and inflection, something incommunicably indigenous, something no alien ever has or ever will compass. "No need to ask what part of England you come from," he ventured. "No?" she queried. "There seems nothing you don't know." "Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Dainopoulos, that ain't fair. I can't sit here and twiddle my thumbs all the evening, can I? _That_ wouldn't be giving you any pleasure as far as I'm aware. The boss didn't reckon I was going to play a mandolin or sing, did he?" "Well, since you're so clever, what's the answer?" "Not so very many miles from Charing Cross," he hazarded. "Wonderful!" she said, laying her head back and smiling. Mr. Spokesly admired the pretty throat. "You ought to be in the secret service. Perhaps you are," she added. "Of course," he agreed. "They've sent me out to see where all the nice London girls have got to. But am I right?" She nodded. "Haverstock Hill," she said quietly. "No! Do you know Mafeking Road? When I was a kid we lived at sixty-eight." "Yes, I know it. Don't you live round there now?" "No, not now. We live down Twickenham way now."