"Not at all," said I, with a glance downward. "The small bright shoe is on the other exquisite--er--foot. It's very good of you to let me walk with you, especially in view of my recent scandalous behaviour all among the baths." "Which reminds me, you were awful. I thought I should die, when you asked that poor man--" "A wholesome thirst for knowledge, my dear. Talking of which, d'you know it's getting on for half-past one?" "Is it really?" "It is, indeed. Time tears away sometimes, doesn't he?" "Sometimes." "You are sweet," said I. "However. About Time. He's a mocker of men, you know: very contrary. When he can serve, not he. When he cannot, he is willing enough. Beg him to hasten, he'll cock his hat and stroll with an air of leisure that makes us dance. Cry him to tarry, he is already gone, the wind panting behind him. Bid him return, he is at once all sympathy--grave sympathy: 'He may not. Otherwise he would have been so pleased... Sorry. Rather like my brother-in-law. You'll meet him at White Ladies." "Is that where the bath's going?" "Certainly. We shall be there in the spring. Will you come to our bath-warming?" "Perhaps." We came to the bridge and the sunshine and the marching river, and beyond these to Bridge Street and the green square. At the corner she hesitated. "I think I'd better say good-bye now." "I'm going to see a fellow," said I. "I wish you'd come with me." A quick look of surprise. Then: "Do I know him?" "I think so. He's one of the Times. Lunch Time he's called; brother of Half Time. Both sons of the old man." She smiled. "Ah," she said. "I've an appointment with him, too. Only mine's at home. I must be going. I'm keeping him waiting now." She held out her hand. I looked at it. "You've made a mistake," I said. "I know for a fact he's going to be at the Carlton." "No good! I know the family. The father taught them all the trick of being able to be in more than one place at the same time." "All of them?" "Yes." "My dear, you're wrong. You've forgotten Mean. He's got a place at Greenwich, you know, and never leaves it. Well, I won't bother her, for she's been awfully sweet. Shall I call her a taxi?" She nodded. "I don't think we ought to stand here any longer: the atmospheric pressure of the Labour party is already affecting my breathing. Besides, any moment I might be mistaken for a Cabinet Minister. I know a salesman's pretty bad, but I must draw the line somewhere." With that I hailed a taxi. As it was coming to the kerb: "You're a dear C.B.," I said. "But I would have loved to have given you lunch." She smiled gently. "Would you?" "You know I would, lass. Well, I shall look forward to you and the spring." The cab drew up, and I opened the door. She stepped in. "Where shall I tell him to go?" For a moment she hesitated. Then she spoke slowly: "Was it the Carlton you said?"