"Really? Do you know that hurts, rather? I'm sorry." "_I_'m sorry," sighed Rosalind. "But her heart's sweet," she added; "it's only the bloom that has gone." She smiled. "Clap your hands! She's my pal--you've got to applaud her." "She's very good," he said, applauding. "I thought she was going to do a flower song? But I like that one. Isn't it pretty? I like the way it goes." "Yes, rag-time--all against the beat. _Don't_ hum it out of tune!" she said plaintively. "She's going to do the flower song next. By-the-bye, I may have to introduce you to some of the girls. What shall I call you?" "My _name_," Conrad answered deferentially, "is 'Warrener.'" She bent her head; "Thank you," said Lady Darlington. When the concert was over he walked with her as far as Mrs. Cheney's. Tattie of course was with them. At the foot of the steps Tattie shook hands with him and went indoors, and he remained a minute saying 'good night' to Rosalind. The other girl might well have heard all they said, but the minute had charm to him because the other girl had left them. It implied something. And underneath, to both these shuttlecocks of temperament, there was another charm, not defined yet--to be savoured in the first moments of solitude--the charm of recapturing a mood of years ago. At a doorstep, late: "You look tired?" "Oh, it's nothing." A pause. "I shall see you to-morrow?" "Yes, come in to tea." A whiff of the fragrance of his youth, a touch of the sentimentality of her girlhood, idealised Corporation Road as they parted in the fog. "I wish it were to-morrow! ... Good night." "Do you? ... Good night." The old tune was not classical, but it was pretty. CHAPTER XVII "I want something substantial," said Conrad gravely, shaking his head. "For the follow, say a Chateaubriand." Two days had passed, and in his mind a new and disquieting thought had risen--the thought that Rosalind couldn't pay for enough to eat. Truly she was paying for a great deal to eat, conjuring steaks and puddings on to the tables of a dozen lodgings, and inventing strange stories to account for her having half-sovereigns to lend. But Conrad could not know that. He only knew that the necessities of the _Kiss-and-Tell_ Company were more urgent than he had understood; and he felt very sorry for all the girls, but his heart bled for Lady Bountiful. "A Chateaubriand," he repeated firmly. It was nourishing. "And pommes soufflées.... No? Well, I'll leave the potatoes to you. With a chestnut purée, eh? And let us have nice sweets. Don't give me the table d'hôte sweets--special. What about peaches? ... Well, send for the best fruit you can get--you've plenty of time. Where's the wine-list? A quarter to two. That table in the corner--for three persons."