She smiled, then in a low voice: "There's no virtue in me, either." "Is that why you didn't include yourself in your first-aid offer?" "Perhaps," she said, quietly, watching him out of her violet-gray eyes--a little curiously and shyly now, because he had moved nearer to her, and her arm, extended along the back of the seat, almost touched his shoulder. She was considering whether or not to withdraw it when he said: "Have you any idea what a jolly world this old planet can be when it wants to?" She laughed. He went on: "I mean when _you_ want it to be. Because it's really up to you." "To _me_, my slangy friend?" "To you, to me, to anybody, Strelsa." This time he was looking smilingly and deliberately into her eyes; and she could not ignore his unwarranted freedom. "Why do you use my first name, Mr. Quarren?" she asked quietly. "Because I always think of you as Strelsa, not as Mrs. Leeds." "Is that a reason?"--very gravely. "You can make it so if you will." She hesitated, watching his expression. Then: "You say that you always think of me--that way. But I'm afraid that, even in your thoughts, the repetition of my name has scarcely accustomed you to the use of it." "You mean that I don't think of you very frequently?" "Something like that. But please, Mr. Quarren, if you really mean to give me a little of that friendship which I had begun to despair of, don't let our very first reunion degenerate into silly conversation----" "Strelsa----" "No!--please." "When?" She flushed, then, slightly impatient: "Do you make it a point, Mr. Quarren?" "Not unless you do." "I? What do you mean?" "Will you answer me honestly?" "Have you ever found me dishonest?" "Sometimes--with yourself." Suddenly the colour surged in her cheeks and she turned her head abruptly. After a few moments' silence: "Ask your question," she said in a calm and indifferent voice. "Then--do you ever, by any accident, think of me?" She foresaw at once what was coming, bit her lip, but saw no way to avoid it. "I think of my friends--and you among them." "Do you always think of me as 'Mr. Quarren'?" "I--your friends--people are eternally dinning your name into my ears----" "Please answer." "What?" She turned toward him disdainfully: "Would it gratify you to know that I think of you as Rix, Ricky, Dick--whatever they call you?" "Which?" he insisted, laughing. And finally she laughed, too, partly in sheer exasperation. "Rix!" she said: "Now are you satisfied? I don't know why on earth I made such a scene about it. It's the way I think of you--when I happen to remember you. But if you fancy for a moment I am going to call you that, please awake from vain dreams, my airy friend----" "Won't you?" "No." "Some day?" "Certainly not. Why should I? I don't want to. I don't feel like it. It would be forced, artificial--an effort--and I don't desire--wish--care----"