“There are certain conventions.” “I know,” she said. “They're idiotic.” “There's also Mrs. Faversham,” said I. “Mother is the dearest thing in life,” she replied, “but Mrs. Faversham is a convention.” She came nearer to me, in order to allow a freer passage down the gangway and also in order to be out of earshot of an elderly woman who was obviously accompanying her. “Simon, I've been a good friend to you. I believe in you. Nothing will shake my convictions. You couldn't look into my eyes like that if--well--you know.” “I couldn't,” said I. “Then why can't two honourable, loyal people meet? We only need meet once. But I want to tell you things I can't write--things I can't say here. I also want to hear of things. I think I've got a kind of claim--haven't I?” “I've told you, Eleanor. My letters--” “Letters are rubbish!” she declared with a laugh. “Where can we meet?” “Agatha is a good soul,” said I. “Well, fix it up by telephone to-morrow.” “Alas!” said I; “I don't run to telephones in my eagle's nest on Himalaya Mansions.” She knitted her brows. “That's not the last address you wrote from.” “No,” I replied, smiling at this glimpse of the matter-of-fact Eleanor. “It was a joke.” “You're incorrigible!” she said rebukingly. “I don't joke so well in rags as in silken motley,” I returned with a smile, “but I do my best.” She disdained a retort. “We'll arrange, anyhow, with Agatha.” Campion, escaping from his friends, came up and chatted for a minute. Then he saw Eleanor and her companion to their carriage. “Now,” said he a moment later, “come to Barbara and have some supper. You won't mind if Jenkins joins us?” “Who's Jenkins?” I asked. “Jenkins is an intelligent gas-fitter of Sociological tastes. He classes Herbert Spencer, Benjamin Kidd, and Lombroso as light literature. He also helps us with our young criminals. I should like you to meet him.” “I should be delighted,” I said. So Jenkins was summoned from a little knot a few yards off and duly presented. Whereupon we proceeded to Campion's plain but comfortably furnished quarters in Barbara's Building, where he entertained us till nearly midnight with cold beef and cheese and strenuous conversation. As I walked across Westminster Bridge on my homeward way it seemed as if London had grown less hostile. Big Ben chimed twelve and there was a distinct Dick Whittington touch about the music. The light on the tower no longer mocked me. As I passed by the gates of Palace Yard, a policeman on duty recognised me and saluted. I strode on with a springier tread and noticed that the next policeman who did not know me, still regarded me with an air of benevolence. A pale moon shone in the heavens and gave me shyly to understand that she was as much my moon as any one else's. As I turned into Victoria Street, omnibuses passed me with a lurch of friendliness. The ban was lifted. I danced (figuratively) along the pavement.