“No offence, old chap,” said Meats cordially. “It’s no good my giving you an address because it won’t last, but London isn’t very big, and we’ll run up against one another again, that’s a cert. Now I’ve got to toddle off and meet a girl.” “Have you?” asked Michael, and his enquiry was tinged with a faint longing that the other noticed at once. “Jealous?” enquired Meats. “Why, look at all the girls round about you. It’s up to you not to feel lonely.” “I know,” said Michael fretfully. “But how the deuce can I tell whether they want me to talk to them?” Meats laughed shrilly. “What are you afraid of? Leading some innocent lamb astray?” Again to Michael occurred the ridiculous rhyme of Bo-peep. So insistent was it that he could scarcely refrain from humming it aloud. “Of course I’m not afraid of that,” he protested. “But how am I to tell they won’t think me a brute?” “What would it matter if they did?” asked Meats. “Well, I should feel a fool.” “Oh, dear. You’re very young, aren’t you?” “It’s nothing to do with being young,” Michael asserted. “I simply don’t want to be a cad.” “Somebody else is to be the cad first and then it’s all right, eh?” chuckled Meats. “But it’s a shame to teaze a nice chap like you. I dare say Daisy’ll have a friend with her.” “Is Daisy the girl you’re going to see?” “You’ve guessed my secret,” said Meats. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” As Michael rose to follow Meats, he felt that he was like Faust with Mephistopheles. But Faust had asked for his youth back again. Michael only demanded the courage not to waste youth while it was his to enjoy. He felt that his situation was essentially different from the other, and he hesitated no longer. The next half-hour passed in a whirl. Michael was conscious of a slim brunette in black and scarlet, and of a fairy-like figure by her side in a dress of shimmering blue; he was conscious too of a voice insinuating, softly metallic, and of fingers that touched his wrist as lightly as silk. There were whispers and laughters and sudden sweeping embarrassments. There was a horrible sense of publicity, of curious mocking eyes that watched his progress. There was an overwhelming knowledge of money burning in his pocket, of money hard and round and powerful. There were hot waves of remorse and the thought of his heart hammering him on to be brave. A cabman leaned over from his box like a gargoyle. A key clicked.