Evolutionists assert that we all possess some characteristic, however vague, of all the forms into which the life-stock has differentiated. Upon this theory the Tyro must have had in his make-up a disproportionate share of the common house-fly, which, we are taught, rejoices in eyes all around its head. For, though he sedulously averted his face from the pair in whom his interest centered, he was perfectly aware of what they were doing. First Little Miss Grouch glanced at him and said something. Then her father glared at him and said something. Then she turned toward him again and made another remark. Then the disgruntled parent glowered more fiercely and said a worse thing than he had said before. Then both of them regarded him until his ears flushed and swelled to their farthest tips. All of which was a triumph of the visual imagination. As a matter of fact they weren't talking about him at all. Little Miss Grouch was afraid to. And her stern parent didn't even know who he was. The subject of their conversation was, largely, the Battery Place house. Still continuing to imagine a vain thing, the Tyro felt the gentlest little pressure on his arm. "Such a deep-brown, brown study!" said Little Miss Grouch's gay little voice, at his elbow. The Tyro turned with a sigh, quickly succeeded by a smile. It was very hard not to smile, just for pure joy of the eye, when Little Miss Grouch was in the foreground. "Why the musing melancholy?" she pursued. "I'm coming out of Fairyland into the Realm of Realities," he explained. "And I don't believe in realities any more." "I'm a reality," she averred. "No." He shook his head. "You're a figment. I made you up, myself, in a burst of creative genius." "Just like that? Right out of your head?" "Out of my heart," he corrected. "Then why not have moulded me nearer to the heart's desire?" she queried cunningly. "Do you still think I'm homely?" He shut his eyes firmly. "I do." "And cross?" "A regular virago." "And ugly, and messy and an idiot--" "Hold on! You're double-crossing the indictment. I'm the offended idiot," declared the Tyro, opening his eyes upon her. She took advantage of his indiscretion. "_Am_ I red-nosed?" "You are. At least, you will be when you cry again." "I'll cry straight off this minute, if you don't promise to take it all back." "I'll promise--the instant we touch shore." There was a gravity in his tone that banished her mischief. "Perhaps I don't really want you to take it back," she said wistfully. "Ah, but with firm earth under our feet once more, and realities all around us--" "There's Guenn Oaks. That's on the very borders of Elfland. Don't you think Bertie looks like a Pixie?" "I'm not going to Guenn Oaks." "Not if I say my very prettiest 'please'?" From those pleading lips and eyes the Tyro turned away. Instantly there was a piercing squeak of greeting from across the narrow strip of water.