“I don’t,” he said; “only sometimes! Sometimes one feels one must confide. I feel like that tonight.” “Confide in me, then. What’s to stop you?” “I think I will. You’re frank—unconventional; some one like you I’ve been looking for. I couldn’t sleep tonight—couldn’t go to bed.” The smile came again—went—and was replaced by an expression of perplexity. It was not the conversational formula to which she was accustomed. “Well, don’t let’s hang about, anyway,” she said. “There’s sure to be a cab in Waterloo Place. Come on.” “D’you live far from here, then? It would be jollier to walk, don’t you think?” She had heard that phrase before, on the lips of economists, and the business side of her nature sprang to action. “If you’ve no money—better say so.” “I’ve plenty of money.” “What do you call plenty?” “Don’t let’s talk money. People never speak of anything else.” “I’m beginning to think you know a thing or two.” “Perhaps I do.” The suggestion flattered him. “So do I, and I’d like to know what I’m standing for, too. I’m too fly to bounce, kiddie. Get me?” “No,” he replied. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” He hated confessing this, but it was no less than the truth. “Of—course—not,” she drawled the syllables, and leaned against his shoulder with fingers that travelled caressingly over his wrist and palm. “O God!” exclaimed Wynne. “I see.” A kind of fear possessed him and he backed a pace. “What’s the matter now?” “Only—only that I’m a fool. I must be. You’re Adventure, aren’t you? Commercial Adventure?” “Now then! Who are you calling names?” “I must be a fool.” This concerned him most, and provided him with courage. “All boys are fools—men too, for that matter. Come along if you’re coming.” “But I’m not,” said Wynne. “Why not?” “I made a mistake.” “A mistake, eh? You’re a cheeky little devil. Who are you to speak to a girl? I should like to ask?” “I didn’t recognize you, that’s all. I’ve never met you before. Another time I shall know. Good-night.” He turned quickly and walked away. “Silly little kid!” murmured the girl, and fell into her roving pace once more. “I wish I had told her how rotten I thought she was,” mused Wynne, as he pulled off his boots before getting to bed. “I might have gone home with her!” He tried to picture such a happening, but it brought nothing to his imagination. There was not the slightest tremble of passion to weigh against his satisfaction at having avoided the offered temptation. “Fools men must be to yield to that sort. I never should. I think I got out of it all right after the first mistake. Original sin!” He fell to quoting Swinburne, a poet who had pleased his ear alone. “What sterile growth of sexless root or Epicene, What flower of kisses without fruit of love, Faustine.”