That was how this girl's face, that was not beautiful, contrived to give an impression of strange beauty, fascinating and stupefying as her voice. Her voice had begun again. "It really isn't any good," it said. "What isn't?" "Your hanging about like this. It won't help you. It won't, really. You don't know Winny." "I say, did she ask you to tell me that?" "Not she! 'Tisn't likely. And if she did, you don't suppose I'd let on. I'm giving you the straight tip. I'm telling you what I know about her. I'm her friend, else I couldn't do it." "But--why?" "Don't ask me--how do I know? I suppose I couldn't stand seeing you waiting outside there, night after night, all for nothing." She drew herself up, so that she seemed to be looking down at him; she seemed, with all her youth, to be older than he, to be no longer childlike and innocent and helpless. And her voice, her incomparable voice, had an edge to it; it was the voice of maturity, of experience, of the wisdom of the world. "You can take it from me," said this voice, "that it doesn't do a man a bit of good to go on hanging about a girl and worrying her when she doesn't want him." "You mean--she doesn't like me?" "Like you? As far as I know she likes you well enough." "Then--for the life of me I can't see why--" "Liking a man isn't wanting him. And you're not going the way to make Winny want you." "Oh--" He had drawn up in the middle of the pavement just to consider whether, after all, there wasn't something in it. "You're--you're not offended?" Her voice implored now and pleaded. "That's all right." "Well--if you're sure you're not--would you mind seeing me home?" "Certainly. With pleasure." * * * * * She was all helpless again and childlike, and he liked her that way best. "I don't like the streets," she explained. "I'm afraid of them. I mean I'm afraid of the people in them. They stare at me something awful. So horribly rude, isn't it, to stare?" "Rude?" said Ransome. "It's disgustin'." "As if there was something peculiar about me. Do _you_ see anything peculiar about me? Anything, I mean, to make them stare?" He was silent. "_Do_ you?" she insisted, poignantly. They were advancing headlong toward intimacy and its embarrassments. "Well, no," he said, "if you ask me--no, I don't. Except that, don't you know, you're--" "I'm what?" "Well--" "Oh!" (She became more poignant than ever.) "You _do_, then--" "No, I don't--on my honor I--I only meant that--well, you _are_ a bit out of the way, you know." Her large gaze interrogated him. "Out of the way all round, I should fancy. Something rather wonderful." "Something--rather--wonderful--" she repeated, drowsily. "Strikes me so--that's all." "Strange?" "Sort of--" "It _is_ strange that we should be talking this way--when you think-- Why, you don't even know my name." "No more I do," said Ransome. "My name is Violet. Violet Usher. Do you like it?" "Very much," said Ransome.