"What do you say to just getting in here for a moment till we see where we are?" They withdrew into the doorway of a block of offices. "The fact is, I've got a job which is going to keep me in and about Doomington for a few months and I don't know a soul in the place. To tell the truth, I've managed to avoid Doomington till now.... Now isn't that a tactful thing to say to a native! I suppose you _do_ belong to the place, don't you? But look here, you don't mind me buttonholing you like this, do you now? Perfect stranger and that sort of thing!" There was no doubt he was a thoroughly engaging young fellow. And at this moment Allen of the Sixth passed by, a celebrated swell so far as school swells went. Allen looked merely dowdy now, with his somewhat down-at-heel brown brogues and the silver braid round his prefectorial cap coming loose at the peak. Philip was sure that Allen had glanced a little enviously towards himself and with real respect at the stranger. But who could resist the dapper waist cunningly conferred upon the young man by some prince of tailors? "It's very decent of you indeed!" Philip muttered. "I appreciate it. You know if I can be of any help at all, I'll be only too pleased!" A grin extended the corners of the stranger's mouth. He almost ogled Philip as he replaced finger to ever-so-slightly-aquiline nose. "A charming little speech, charming! I'm developing my theories about you, so help me! A lady's man, that's what you are, a regular lady's man! One has met your type, you know, up and down the place!" Philip was not over pleased by this invariable insistence on the part of strangers that he was a "lady's man," that he had a "way with him," that they had "met your type, you know, up and down the place!" He coughed a little awkwardly. "I hate women!" he declared with vivid retrospect and pained conviction. The other laughed a little too loudly. "And a jolly good joke, ha, ha! Hate women--gee, what an idea! But more of the ladies anon! Let's just settle the matter in hand!" He made a motion towards the suit case at his feet. "Let me take your bag!" demanded Philip, with tardy politeness. "Not for a moment! It's quite light, anyhow. My real luggage is at the station and it's as much as I'm worth with Eulalie et Cie.--my employers, you know, Paris,"--he paused to give the information its exact importance,--"as much as I'm worth to let this little Johnny out of my hand, God bless it! But listen, I've got something to ask you. Would you first tell me your name? Pardon? Massel! Oh, yes; good name, solid! Here's mine!" He tenderly replaced his bag between his feet and withdrew a card from an expensive leather case. "Wilfrid Strauss, _né_ Wolfie, but don't tell any one! You can't sell ladies' vanities and gentlemen's--er--gentlemen's comforts, don't you know, with a name like Wolfie, can you now?" Philip slightly demurred.