“It’s plenty good enough for me,” she said. “I came here once when I had only twenty cents to live on that day--I remember the stool, that fifth stool, I sat on. I spent my twenty cents all at once,” she added, “and the grub was so good that I could have wept in the arms of the woman on the other side of the counter.” “Was that when you were working in the factory?” he asked. “No,” said Pidge, “it was before I got the job. I ate regularly after that.” “Where was the factory?” “Oh, way up in the other end of town. I labeled tins, salmon tins, baking powder tins, cocoa tins.” “To get local color?” he asked. “To get food. I sat at a big table with a lot of girls, and in the hours and hours, in the monotony of the days, I found out how easy it is to get hard lines around the mouth. I learned to understand just enough to learn that I know nothing, and that’s a lot.” She was thinking of what a tension she had been in to escape from Fanny Gallup. “I worked on a ranch in Wyoming,” Melton observed, “cattle ranch.” “What were you doing on the Tunisian sands?” “Just ramming around the world. I got in bad with an Arab sheik. It was while running away from him that I got lost in the desert.” She saw his eyes kindle in the prospect of narration, his faculties forming a fresh tale, which she could not bear to hear that moment. She forestalled his fruitfulness. They were in the streets. “No, I don’t want to go uptown,” said Pidge. “I don’t feel like the theater to-night----” “Wouldn’t you like a ride on the harbor? The ferries are empty this time of night.” “No, we’ll cross over to Harrow Street.” “May I come in? There’s so much to say. It’s just--finding you again--Pan.” “Not to-night. I want to be alone.” He didn’t answer. She felt a little better after that. She had thought it might be harder to have her way. There seemed always something he could not say behind his words. It wasn’t _all_ lies. It became clear for a moment that he would follow after her--so long as she could run ahead; that he would only turn away and forget when she paused to breathe or play. “I feel strange,” he said in the silence of Harrow Street. “It is strange to-night. It’s like finding the house one has been looking for so long--the house, even the door, but not the key. Pan,” he said suddenly, “give it to me. Give me the key. It’s you--it’s yours----”