“It is red,” said the profile of Miss Wych, “for shame that a man can so insult his manhood.” “Oh, I do wish people wouldn’t talk like those small leaders in _The Daily Mail_!” cried the voice at her shoulder. “I’m not insulting my manhood. I am living up to it for the first time in my life.” Miss Wych said fiercely: “Go away, go away, go away!” “Dear,” said the young stranger, “listen to me. You must listen to me. I am not playing.” Miss Wych thought: “Our Father which art in Heaven----” They were in the Park. How they had come to be in the Park Miss Wych could not imagine. Over Kensington Gardens the sun was marching to eternity with a cohort of clouds and colours. “No,” said the lean young man, “I am certainly not playing. Miss Wych dear, this is not a ‘pick-up’----” “It’s piracy!” said Miss Wych contemptuously. “That’s right,” said the lean young man with the eyes of trouble. “You say you aren’t playing,” Miss Wych bitterly complained, “but you are upsetting me very much. A little chivalry, sir, would help you to see how terrified I am.” “I am terrified, too,” said the young stranger, “of this happiness. It can’t possibly last, can it? It’s too enormous.” Miss Wych thought: “He’s gone mad!” “I really don’t know why you ask me,” she panted spitefully, “whether it can last or not. How should I know? And it’s perfectly absurd, what we are doing. It is perfectly absurd. I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and that’s that. Anyone would think we were babies!” “But that’s just what I am! For,” said the young stranger, “I am exactly one week old.” Miss Wych thought: “And he talks like it!” Miss Wych said: “Really! How interesting.” “I am one week old,” the stranger said, “because it was exactly a week ago that I first saw you. And you needn’t laugh!” “I’m not laughing,” said Miss Wych. They were sitting on two chairs in the Park. How they had come to be sitting on two chairs in the Park Miss Wych could not imagine. The sun was red in the face with trying to get to Australia through Kensington Gardens. The young stranger said: “Now!” His eyes were deep and dark and shy, and Miss Wych thought: “He is one of those unhappy young men. There are a lot of them about. He is probably used to burning people with those eyes of his. But he won’t burn me.” The lean young man was saying: “Miss Wych, may I tell you something most important? I love you.” “That is what you say,” said Miss Wych, and was surprised at herself, for she had intended to say something quite different. “Love,” said Miss Wych severely, “is a shy word. It should not be thrown about just anyhow. That’s quite apart from it’s being cheek.” The lean young man’s eyes burnt angrily, and he said: “I have been in hell for a week, and you talk to me of cheek!” “Well, it _is_ cheek,” said Miss Wych sulkily.