“So that you just put it to me as a definite request?”—oh how she tried to divest this of all sound of the hardness of bargaining! That ought to have been easy enough, for what was she arranging to get? Before he could answer she had continued: “To be perfectly fair I should tell you I recognise at Cocker’s certain strong attractions. All you people come. I like all the horrors.” “The horrors?” “Those you all—you know the set I mean, _your_ set—show me with as good a conscience as if I had no more feeling than a letter-box.” He looked quite excited at the way she put it. “Oh they don’t know!” “Don’t know I’m not stupid? No, how should they?” “Yes, how should they?” said the Captain sympathetically. “But isn’t ‘horrors’ rather strong?” “What you _do_ is rather strong!” the girl promptly returned. “What _I_ do?” “Your extravagance, your selfishness, your immorality, your crimes,” she pursued, without heeding his expression. “I _say_!”—her companion showed the queerest stare. “I like them, as I tell you—I revel in them. But we needn’t go into that,” she quietly went on; “for all I get out of it is the harmless pleasure of knowing. I know, I know, I know!”—she breathed it ever so gently. “Yes; that’s what has been between us,” he answered much more simply. She could enjoy his simplicity in silence, and for a moment she did so. “If I do stay because you want it—and I’m rather capable of that—there are two or three things I think you ought to remember. One is, you know, that I’m there sometimes for days and weeks together without your ever coming.” “Oh I’ll come every day!” he honestly cried. She was on the point, at this, of imitating with her hand his movement of shortly before; but she checked herself, and there was no want of effect in her soothing substitute. “How can you? How can you?” He had, too manifestly, only to look at it there, in the vulgarly animated gloom, to see that he couldn’t; and at this point, by the mere action of his silence, everything they had so definitely not named, the whole presence round which they had been circling, became part of their reference, settled in solidly between them. It was as if then for a minute they sat and saw it all in each other’s eyes, saw so much that there was no need of a pretext for sounding it at last. “Your danger, your danger—!” Her voice indeed trembled with it, and she could only for the moment again leave it so. During this moment he leaned back on the bench, meeting her in silence and with a face that grew more strange. It grew so strange that after a further instant she got straight up. She stood there as if their talk were now over, and he just sat and watched her. It was as if now—owing to the third person they had brought in—they must be more careful; so that the most he could finally say was: “That’s where it is!” “That’s where it is!” the girl as guardedly replied. He sat still, and she added: “I won’t give you up. Good-bye.”