The other made a courtly gesture of remonstrance. "This is the way, isn't it," he repeated, "to Blenheim Road?" Philip considered a moment. "It's rather complicated if you've not been there before. You see, you've first got to turn to the left. And then, let me see ... Or you might take the car ... But look here, I'm not doing anything special just now. If you'd like, I could..." There was something attractively full-blooded about the stranger, though it was true that the gloss--there seemed hardly another word--the almost boot-polish perfection of his appearance, was a little overwhelming. It would be easy enough to put him on the Brownel Gap car which would lead him to the top end of Blenheim Road. Yet Philip felt somehow reluctant to disattach himself so promptly from the stranger, to allow him merely to merge into the tumult and mist. "If I dared to encroach..." hesitated the polite young man. It was, of course, an unworthy sentiment, particularly in a Communistic bosom ... and yet one could not help feeling that to be seen talking to a stranger of this calibre was rather a distinction. All the people he had rubbed shoulders with to-day, what dull faces they had, threadbare suits, dry lips mouthing "Cotton, cotton, cotton!" even to themselves! This young man was wearing the most smartly tailored of grey tweed suits, shoes of metropolitan brilliance, a velours hat whose ample brims shadowed, expensively, quick green eyes, a slightly squat nose, and lips attuned, as one might judge from a slight thickness and their broad curves, to Bacchic riot and to kissing, even, it might well be, to the more recondite pleasures of the flesh. The last thought checked Philip. Yes, there was something full-blooded to the verge of coarseness in that mouth! Wasn't all this talk about taxis and one's own little two-seater, a hell of a scooter, you know, just a little too ostentatious? After all, a gentleman in the complete sense of the word could deduce from one's clothes, for instance... The stranger interrupted himself suddenly, then stared at Philip with some intentness. Then he lifted his forefinger to his nose and asked "_Zog mir, bist a Yid_? Tell me, thou art a Jew?" Not merely the intonation of the voice had changed, so that the cadence of Leicester Square had subtly become the chant of the _Yeshiveh_, but its very timbre was different, thicker, more ingenuous, infinitely more homely. "_Ich bin!_" replied Philip, perhaps a little stiffly. "So you're one of us then, eh? well, all's well! I want you to help me, kid!" A note of _bonhommie_ had entered the voice. "You say you can come along this way, can you? Good! Do you mind? I'm going to take you into my confidence, if you'll let me!" Philip blinked. He felt a momentary difficulty in his breathing, as if he had been running. A little sudden, one might think....