She reached out her hand and took his. He was terrifically conscious of the warm smoothness of her fingers playing a soft tattoo on the back of his hand, while she said: “But you have been in love? Drefful in love?” “I never have.” “Dear child, you’ve missed so much of the tea and cakes of life, haven’t you? And you have an interest in life. Do you know, when I think of the jaded Interesting People I’ve met—Why do I leave you to be spoiled by some shop-girl in a flowered hat? She’d drag you to moving-picture shows…. Oh! You didn’t tell me that you went to moving pictures, did you?” “No!” he lied, fervently, then, feeling guilty, “I used to, but no more.” “It _shall_ go to the nice moving pictures if it wants to! It shall take me, too. We’ll forget there are any syndicalists or broken-colorists for a while, won’t we? We’ll let the robins cover us with leaves.” “You mean like the babes in the woods? But, say, I’m afraid you ain’t just a babe in the woods! You’re the first person with brains I ever met, ’cept, maybe, Dr. Mittyford; and the Doc never would play games, I don’t believe. The very first one, really.” “Thank you!” Her warm pressure on his hand tightened. His heart was making the maddest gladdest leaps, and timidly, with a feeling of historic daring, he ventured to explore with his thumb-tip the fine lines of the side of her hand…. It actually was he, sitting here with a princess, and he actually did feel the softness of her hand, he pantingly assured himself. Suddenly she gave his hand a parting pressure and sprang up. “Come. We’ll have tiffin, and then I’ll send you away, and to-morrow we’ll go see the Tate Gallery.” While Istra was sending the slavey for cakes and a pint of light wine Mr. Wrenn sat in a chair—just sat in it; he wanted to show that he could be dignified and not take advantage of Miss Nash’s kindness by slouchin’ round. Having read much Kipling, he had an idea that tiffin was some kind of lunch in the afternoon, but of course if Miss Nash used the word for evening supper, then he had been wrong. Istra whisked the writing-table with the Reseda-green cover over before the fire, chucked its papers on the bed, and placed a bunch of roses on one end, moving the small blue vase two inches to the right, then two inches forward. The wine she poured into a decanter. Wine was distinctly a problem to him. He was excited over his sudden rise into a society where one took wine as a matter of course. Mrs. Zapp wouldn’t take it as a matter of course. He rejoiced that he wasn’t narrow-minded, like Mrs. Zapp. He worked so hard at not being narrow-minded like Mrs. Zapp that he started when he was called out of his day-dream by a mocking voice: “But you might look at the cakes. Just once, anyway. They are very nice cakes.” “Uh—” “Yes, I know the wine is wine. Beastly of it.” “Say, Miss Nash, I did get you this time.” “Oh, don’t tell me that my presiding goddessship is over already.”