"Ah, but that is a secret." She shrugged. Evidently she was incredulous. "Are you an actor?" suddenly recollecting where she had picked me up. "Only in 'All the world's a stage.'" "I will ask you: Will you do me the honor of telling me who you are?" "My self-respect denies me that pleasure." "Fiddlesticks!" This was very human. "Is it possible that I am interesting you?"--surprised. "You are a clever man, whoever and whatever you are. Where did you learn to read a woman so readily? Who told you that when you confront a woman with a mystery you trap her interest along with her curiosity? Yes, you are clever. If you told me your name and your occupation I dare say I should straightway become bored." "Truth still shivers on the well's edge." She nibbled the rose-leaves. "Does your interest in episodes like to-night always die so suddenly?"--nodding toward the others, who had long since ceased to pay me any particular attention. "Nearly always." "Very well; since they have forgotten us let us forget them." I leaned toward her, and my voice was not so steady as it should have been. "In what manner would it benefit me to tell you my name and what my occupation in the great world is? Would it put me on the list of your acquaintance?" She eyed me thoughtfully. "That depends." "Upon what?" "Whether you were worth knowing. I addressed other gentlemen in front of your club. They politely said I had made a mistake." "They were old or married." "That wasn't it." "Then they didn't see you in the light, as I did." "What difference would that have made?" "All the difference in the world. But you have tabooed flattery. I see that I should have been a barber, a mild lunatic, or a detective." "You would have been easier to dispose of." I directed my gaze toward the door, and she surrendered a smile. "You might be worth knowing,"--musingly. "I promise to be." "I shall give it thought. I should never forgive myself if I were the indirect cause of your joining this carnival of fools." "I see that I shall last longer in your thoughts as the Unknown." "Eat," she commanded. "I am not hungry; I have dined." "Drink, then." "I am not thirsty." She took my glass and poured the contents into hers, then handed it to me. "Now!" she said. "Why?" "You make me think of Monte Cristo: what terrible revenge are you going to take?" "It will be upon myself: that of never forgetting you." "One single sip!" I accepted the glass and took one sip. "Now I have lost what I desired to retain--my respect. So long as I touched nothing at this table I held the advantage. My name is--" She put her hands over her ears. "Don't!" "Very well: the woman tempted me." "Haven't you a better epigram?" "Perhaps I am saving them." "For what?" "Who knows that I am not writing a play?" "I live here; a card will find me on Thursdays after four." "I will come Wednesdays, thereby saving you the trouble."