“No--I’ve a room by myself.” Obviously he liked that and the visible signs of his liking amused her. “Can I come to see you once in a while?” “Oh, no, indeed. I shouldn’t in the least like you as a caller.” He was undisturbed. “I’ll have to make you change your mind somehow.” She shrugged her shoulders slightly, delicately, in negation. “Do you know how much I’ve thought about you since that night?” he asked, bending a little closer to her. “How much?” “All the time.” She pushed her glass away from her. “Don’t be silly. I’m not a half-wit, Ted. I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You know quite well you’re engaged to Barbara Brownley. Her mother told Miss Duffield that.” His face darkened. “Well,” he said, “I thought you were above a lot of silly conventions.” She smiled serenely. “I am.” “Then--just because a man is engaged to a woman is no reason why he should never speak to any one else.” “No--that would put a pretty high penalty on such things, wouldn’t it?” “People are getting over their old fashioned notions about such things. Men and women aren’t simpletons as they used to be, you know. We’re regarding these things in a modern way. More like the French,” he said largely. “The French--oh, yes,” said Freda, gravely, “you mean having wives and mistresses too. I’ve often wondered if the French couldn’t sue us for libel for the things provincial Americans think about them.” He flushed. “Are you making fun of me?” “Gracious, no.” But he knew from her laugh that she was. “Why should I make fun of you?” She was enjoying herself. She felt so secure, so strong. It was fun to bait this temperish young man, make him scuttle about for phrases which had no effect on her at all. “Anyway you know how I feel.” He pushed aside the glasses and plates between them and bent himself over the tiny table towards her. She sat back in her chair promptly. “You know how I feel,” he persisted, “I never cared for a girl as I’ve cared for you.” “Then,” said Freda, with an air of great simplicity, “why not ask me to marry you?” He threw out his hands in a theatrical gesture of despondency. “I’m tied hand and foot. This marriage of mine has been cooked up by our families. It’s all arranged for us.” “I know,” said Freda wisely, “as in France.” He glanced sharply at her. “But,” said Freda, “the modern way is not to let your parents put that sort of thing over. Truly. One simply says, ‘Mother--I will wed the girl of my choice.’” “You are making fun of me.” “Well--who wouldn’t?” Freda collapsed into a laugh. “Here I sit, listening to you make the funniest clandestine love in the world. You feel you’ve got to do it--to uphold your reputation as a--Frenchman! And if you slipped into a serious situation you’d be aghast. You don’t care a thing about me and you know it.” “Ah, don’t I?” He looked for a moment as if he did.