They walked along the street in the gathering darkness soberly, he returning monosyllabic answers to the perfunctory questions which she fired at him, brightly crisp. Like the questionnaire of a superior officer he felt. Then for nearly a block they said nothing. Glancing sidewise at her he caught the straight, almost grim line of her mouth and the little pucker between her brows. As if realizing she was being observed she suddenly asked: "What are you doing out at the Works?" Joe paused a moment before replying. "When I was in Texas," he began, "out in the sticks, we had a flood, and the road from headquarters was in danger of being washed away. Culverts too small. Had one nigger standing on the bank of one stream by the head of a culvert catching the sticks and brush and dragging them up on the bank so they wouldn't clog up the hole." He spoke in a quietly reminiscent tone. She turned and looked at him curiously. "But I said, 'What are _you_ doing _now_ at the Works?'" "I know," he continued, in the same tone. "That's what I'm doing at the Plow Factory. Keeping the water running." She smiled, just a flash of a smile. "Doesn't sound so bad, even if you are secretive about it. How did the nigger take care of his job?" Joe looked up quickly. "Oh--he? He fell asleep. And then he fell in the creek." Mary Louise was watching him, waiting for him to finish. At last he seemed to have got her entire attention. "And then?" "Then he got pneumonia--and died." They crossed the street. Up ahead the lights of the theatre gleamed dazzling white. The crowd was getting almost too thick to permit conversation. "You don't like your job then?" He flared into sudden unexpected defense of it. "Well, I haven't gone to sleep on it yet." They said no more, for the task of passing the ticket chopper and then of getting settled in their seats was all absorbing. And then directly the curtain rose and Joe found himself slipping into a delightfully relaxed forgetfulness. He was being amused. His good humour was returning. He got an occasional glance at Mary Louise, sometimes during contagious gales of laughter that would sweep the audience, and saw her smiling slightly, mostly with her eyes; and was puzzled, for the humour was not that sort. Had he stopped to think, or had he been more experienced, he would not have been thus puzzled, for he would have realized that the sudden putting on of sophistication is always a puzzling thing. But he banished the question and gave himself up entirely to enjoyment. And when the final curtain fell he rose to his feet with a faint inner sigh of regret. It was with high good humour that he gained his companion's side outside the theatre. "We'll get a bite to eat down in the Rathskeller," he suggested gaily. "No, Joe, let's not. This is enough for one evening." She turned as if to start southward, toward home, but he seized her arm, laughing: