"Better, I believe, and inclined to be more sensible," she answered cheerfully. "She has given up those horrid walks, and is thinking about taking a situation. I can't tell you how grateful I am." "So am I," he answered fervently. They avoided, by mutual though unspoken consent, any further reference to a subject so near akin to grave matters. She was satisfied with Douglas's declaration of innocence--he was only anxious to forget his whole past, and that chapter of it in special. So they passed on to lighter subjects, discussed the people who entered and passed out, praised the dinner and marvelled at its cheapness. They watched the head waiter, with his little black imperial and beady eyes, a miracle of suaveness, deftness, and light-footedness, one moment bowing before a newcomer, his face wreathed with smiles, the next storming with volubility absolutely indescribable at a tardy waiter, a moment later gravely discussing the wine list with a _bon viveur_, and offering confidential and wholly disinterested advice. It was all ordinary enough perhaps, but a chapter out of real life. Their pleasure was almost the pleasure of children. Later she grew confidential. "Douglas," she said, "I am going to tell you a secret." "If there is anything I thoroughly enjoy after a good dinner," he remarked, fishing an olive out of the dish, "it is a secret." "You mustn't laugh." "I'll be as sober as a judge," he promised. "You know I shall have to earn my own living. We have really very little money and we must, both of us, do something. Now I have been trying to do in earnest what I have done for my own pleasure all my life. Do you know what that is?" "I think I can guess," he answered, smiling. "Yes, I told you once--writing children's fairy stories. Now I don't want you to be bothered about it, but I do wish you could give me an idea where to send them." "You have some written?" She smiled. "I have two in that little parcel there." He broke the string and took one out. It was very neatly typewritten, and a quick glance down the page pleased him. "Who typed it for you?" he asked. "Did it myself," she answered. "I learnt shorthand, you know, years ago, and I bought a typewriter last week. I thought if nothing else turned up, I might earn a little that way." "You are certainly not one of the helpless sort of young women," he said. "Will you let me have the stories for a few days?" "Will it bother you?" she asked wistfully. "Well, I don't think so," he assured her. "I won't let it." Drexley, a little gaunt and pale, but more carefully dressed than usual in evening clothes, passed their table, looking for a vacant seat. Douglas touched his arm. "Sit here, Drexley," he said. "We're off in a minute, and then you can have the whole table." Drexley thanked him and surrendered his hat and coat to the waiter. Douglas leaned across to Cicely.