Ada Warren was sitting alone. She looked, and was, in fact, a little tired, and had come there for the sake of quietness. “I have been looking for you, Miss Warren,” was Vincent’s excuse for the intrusion. “You’ll let me sit here, won’t you?” “I shall not be so rude as to tell you to go away,” she answered in a rather undecided tone. “That’s good of you. Do you know I find it restful to talk to you? I do believe you’re the only person I ever spoke to quite seriously.--You don’t answer?” “I was wondering how far that might be a compliment.” “To the very tail of the last word.” “And that was--_ly_, if you remember,” said Ada drily, giving the letter _y_ its broader value. She looked confused as soon as she had spoken, feeling that the remark ought to have been made in a lighter tone to be quite within the limits of becoming repartee. Vincent looked at first surprised, then leaned back and laughed. “I’d no idea you were so witty.” “Nor, perhaps, so ill-mannered?” It was a little piece of reparation, and probably carried her further than she intended. Vincent leaned forward on a chair which stood between them. “You study here, don’t you?” he asked, with a glance at the books on the table. “I read here sometimes.” “I suppose you’re very clever and very learned, Miss Warren?” She moved her head slightly, and seemed unable to find a ready answer. “Your contempt for me,” he pursued, “must be unbounded.” “I don’t allow myself to despise people with whom I am very slightly acquainted,” said Ada; again rather more positively than she had meant. She found such a difficulty in striking with her voice the note corresponding to that which she had in her mind--a difficulty common in people who talk little and think rapidly. “Well, yes, I suppose there is only a slight acquaintance between us,” admitted Vincent. “Not so much, for instance, as would warrant my jumping in by the window just now. I do things on impulse a good deal.” “So do I,” said Ada. “You do? Why, then, there’s a point of contact--of sympathy--it would be better to say, I suppose. There are very few people whom I find sympathetic. Do you fare better?” “I can’t say that I do.” Lacour allowed a moment or two to this assertion before he continued: “I’ve been trying to get Mrs. Clarendon’s help in my difficulties,” he said. “She’s generally pretty sympathetic, but I believe she’s giving me up. Have you heard her say anything rather savage about me of late?” “It would be unusual energy in Mrs. Clarendon,” was the girl’s reply. “Energy? Well, I don’t know; I always thought she had plenty of that. But I understand you. You mean that that kind of society life doesn’t conduce to activity of mind--to sincerity, shall we say?” Ada had meant this, but it did not exactly please her to hear it from Lacour’s lips. “I don’t think I ever heard Mrs. Clarendon speak evil of any one,” she said, with seemingly needless emphasis, measuring her words as if in scrupulous justice.