“Hardly any one, truth and honest” She finished the last button and winked at him solemnly. “Here have I been ready since eleven, sending you cables and whole gardens of flowers.” She burst out laughing: “I’m glad you don’t drizzle. Come on, I’m hungry for the sun.” As they shot down in the elevator he asked her: “Drizzle! That’s a new word. What do you mean by it?” “You’ll know soon enough.” She nodded. “Sooner or later all men do it. Tom drizzles most awfully. He drizzled last night, when I didn’t want him to come up because I thought you’d be in the apartment.” “Then you did think that? You hadn’t forgotten that it was the day I landed?” “Forgotten after you’d cabled me! You must think me callous.” She gave her shoulders a haughty shrug and ran down the steps into the sunlight. He followed, inwardly laughing. Already she had taught him one way of stealing a march on the rest of her suitors. All the other men grew gloomy--“drizzled,” as she called it--when they fancied that she had hurt their feelings. He decided, then and there, that under no provocation whatsoever would he drizzle. She might do what she liked to him, he would always meet her smiling. _Amor Omnia Vincit_ should be the legend written on his banner. “What shall we do?” She clasped her hands against her throat in a gesture of ecstasy. “Anything you like.” “Anything! Really anything? Even something quite expensive?” “Hang the expense.” “Then come on.” He had no idea where she was taking him, and he didn’t care. All places were alike, so long as he was alone with her. They walked shoulder to shoulder, their arms just touching. Sometimes in crossing a road they drew apart and then, as if to apologize for their brief aloofness, came together with a little bump on the farther pavement. They were embarrassed, and glad to be embarrassed. When their silences had lasted too long, they stole furtive glances at each other; when their eyes met, they smiled archly. They had passed through the tunnels where the dogs take their morning walks, and had come out on to Broadway. Suddenly she stopped and regarded him with an expression of unutterable calamity. “I’ve got to go back.” “No, don’t--please.” “I must.” He scented tragedy--a previous engagement, perhaps. “But why--why, when we’ve only just met?” “I’ve forgotten your lilies. I was going to wear them as--as an apology.” He laughed his relief. “Pooh! There are heaps more.” “But it isn’t that. I wouldn’t accept any more. It’s the dear old ones that I want--the ones you sent me almost the minute you landed.” He glanced round sharply; a few doors off he saw a florist’s. “Don’t go back,” he pleaded. And then, with a frankness which he feared might offend her: “If you did go back, we might meet other people. I want you all to myself to-day; I can’t spare a second of you to other persons. Promise to stop here for me.”