Jules, cheered by his victims' kindly forbearance, lowered the car to the ground floor, where, after a glance of infinite longing at the keys on the distant desk, the sort of glance which Moses must have cast at the Promised Land from the summit of Mount Pisgah, he sagged down in a heap and resumed his slumbers. Sally settled herself as comfortably as possible in her corner. “You'd better smoke,” she said. “It will be something to do.” “Thanks awfully.” “And now,” said Sally, “tell me why Scrymgeour fired you.” Little by little, under the stimulating influence of this nocturnal adventure, the red-haired young man had lost that shy confusion which had rendered him so ill at ease when he had encountered Sally in the hall of the hotel; but at this question embarrassment gripped him once more. Another of those comprehensive blushes of his raced over his face, and he stammered. “I say, I'm glad... I'm fearfully sorry about that, you know!” “About Scrymgeour?” “You know what I mean. I mean, about making such a most ghastly ass of myself this morning. I... I never dreamed you understood English.” “Why, I didn't object. I thought you were very nice and complimentary. Of course, I don't know how many girls you've seen in your life, but...” “No, I say, don't! It makes me feel such a chump.” “And I'm sorry about my mouth. It is wide. But I know you're a fair-minded man and realize that it isn't my fault.” “Don't rub it in,” pleaded the young man. “As a matter of fact, if you want to know, I think your mouth is absolutely perfect. I think,” he proceeded, a little feverishly, “that you are the most indescribable topper that ever...” “You were going to tell me about Scrymgeour,” said Sally. The young man blinked as if he had collided with some hard object while sleep-walking. Eloquence had carried him away. “Scrymgeour?” he said. “Oh, that would bore you.” “Don't be silly,” said Sally reprovingly. “Can't you realize that we're practically castaways on a desert island? There's nothing to do till to-morrow but talk about ourselves. I want to hear all about you, and then I'll tell you all about myself. If you feel diffident about starting the revelations, I'll begin. Better start with names. Mine is Sally Nicholas. What's yours?” “Mine? Oh, ah, yes, I see what you mean.” “I thought you would. I put it as clearly as I could. Well, what is it?” “Kemp.” “And the first name?” “Well, as a matter of fact,” said the young man, “I've always rather hushed up my first name, because when I was christened they worked a low-down trick on me!” “You can't shock me,” said Sally, encouragingly. “My father's name was Ezekiel, and I've a brother who was christened Fillmore.” Mr. Kemp brightened. “Well, mine isn't as bad as that... No, I don't mean that,” he broke off apologetically. “Both awfully jolly names, of course...” “Get on,” said Sally.