Frances was a little late the next night, and from her locker in the corridor, she looked anxiously into the classroom for the young Englishman’s nice brown head bent over his machine. But he wasn’t there. She went to her place and began to work half-heartedly, with one eye on the door, watching for him. The clock ticked on and on, half an hour gone, still she couldn’t believe he wasn’t coming. The whole long hour passed, the typing lesson was finished, and he hadn’t come. Disappointment out of all proportion assailed her. Her heart was like lead, the whole world blank. “What a fool I am!” she told herself. “Why on earth should I care? I don’t really; it’s only that he’s the only other possible person in the place---- Why should he come? Of course he’s given up the whole thing in disgust. _Of course_ he’s not coming back, at all. Ever. Of course I shan’t see him again. What difference does it make?” And yet, in spite of all this excellent common-sense, that feeling of desolation persisted. She hated and loathed the silly school, made up her mind to stop coming. She sat in the shorthand class, scratching down her unintelligible little symbols---- Suddenly an awful thought swept over her. It grew rapidly to a conviction. He had certainly stayed away solely because of her, because she had been so preposterously over-friendly that he was disgusted and alarmed. She did wish that she might see him once more, just to tell him that she didn’t like him, not him, personally; simply, like all nice Americans, she had wanted to be kind to a stranger.... She rushed out the minute the class was over. She was very anxious to get home. And there he was, waiting for her, standing under a street lamp where the light streamed on his arrogant face, a slim, foppish figure, with a walking stick. She felt suddenly angry at him; replied with coldness to his greeting. “It was such a nice evening,” he said, “I couldn’t stand that filthy place.” It was; sweet, calm, fresh, with a bright little moon overhead. “I thought perhaps you’d like to walk a bit,” he said, “if you’re not tired.” She hesitated imperceptibly, then accepted. “A few blocks,” she said. “I shouldn’t like to be late.” “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked presently. Frances said she didn’t, and they began strolling, quite aimlessly, uptown. “I say!” he exclaimed, “It’s very decent of you to come. You Americans _are_ unconventional, aren’t you?” “Not all of us,” said Frances drily. “We’re different. We won’t have anything to do with a stranger till we’ve got his credentials. I dare say we’re over-particular. No English girl I’ve ever met would take up a man this way----” “I’m not in the habit of it,” said Frances. She was affronted and angry. “But I’m not a child. I’m accustomed to--to forming my own judgments. I--as far as I could judge, you were a gentleman. I thought you’d quite understand----”