In obedience to a mysterious law, which dictates that no speech of any good-looking woman to any passable man shall mean to him nothing beyond its obvious meaning, this little reminiscence of Judith assumed an identity. It reminded Challis of the existence of that soul-brush, which had become--it is useless to deny it--so much a part of his relation with Judith that he had ceased to hear the machinery. _He_ denied it, mind you!--denied it systematically. Yet he was indignant with anything that reminded him that it was time to deny it. Plague take this necessity for walking guardedly! How acceptable it would have been to be able to say, "_How_ we enjoyed that walk back through the sunset!" Another type of man--the type that says, "Let Charlotte Eldridge do her worst, and be blowed!"--would have had no scruples on the subject. But Challis was a nervous person, and his Self was perplexing him--very especially now, with poor, dear, stupid Polly Anne making life a weariness, with her tempers and her fancies. Was Judith Arkroyd aware, all the time, that this man's bark was in troubled waters, while she was floating in a secure haven--secure, at least, for now? Did she ask herself any questions? Or was Challis just a shade priggish to show a stony front to such a very meek little reminiscence? His actual reply was: "I thought it was a good deal more, since my visit to Royd, I mean." "I hope you'll pay us another visit." Judith thought to herself that two could play that game. And Challis immediately felt chilly, illogically; rather as though the soul-brush had slacked off. He would have to say something serious now, to merge this little fault in the stratification of their conversation. "I hope to, certainly. Well!--what were we saying?... Oh yes!--you told me your age, you know. But even then I had misgivings about Aminta Torrington. I can't say I wasn't glad when old Magnus put his foot down. It's an odious part, and it wouldn't have suited you. Thyrza Schreckenbaum won't look so well on the stage, but it's more her part than yours." "I should have thought Estrild was wicked enough for anything." "So she is. But it's mediæval--good, honest, outrageous atrocity. It's almost Scriptural. Suppose, now, you had to apologize to the papa of your little tire-maiden for putting her on the stage, think how much easier it would be if she was only to play Messalina or Lucrezia Borgia than if it was Frou-frou, for instance!" "That little sugar-plum--just fancy! No, I shouldn't like her to play Frou-frou at all. The atmosphere is purer in the other cases. How ridiculous one is! But point your moral, Mr. Dramatist."