“After all,” she said, “although it may not have dawned upon you yet, it is probably the same wretched reason. You are a man and you have the poison somewhere in your blood. I am really not bad-looking, you know.” He looked at her critically. She was a little over-slim, perhaps, but she was certainly wonderfully graceful. Even the poise of her head, the manner in which she leaned back in her chair, had its individuality. Her features, too, were good, though her mouth had grown a trifle hard. For the first time the dead pallor of her cheeks was relieved by a touch of color. Even Tavernake realized that there were great possibilities about her. Nevertheless, he shook his head. “I do not agree with you in the least,” he asserted firmly. “Your looks have nothing to do with it. I am sure that it is not that.” “Let me cross-examine you,” she suggested. “Think carefully now. Does it give you no pleasure at all to be sitting here alone with me?” He answered her deliberately; it was obvious that he was speaking the truth. “I am not conscious that it does,” he declared. “The only feeling I am aware of at the present moment in connection with you, is the curiosity of which I have already spoken.” She leaned a little towards him, extending her very shapely fingers. Once more the smile at her lips transformed her face. “Look at my hand,” she said. “Tell me--wouldn't you like to hold it just for a minute, if I gave it you?” Her eyes challenged his, softly and yet imperiously. His whole attention, however, seemed to be absorbed by her finger-nails. It seemed strange to him that a girl in her straits should have devoted so much care to her hands. “No,” he answered deliberately, “I have no wish to hold your hand. Why should I?” “Look at me,” she insisted. He did so without embarrassment or hesitation,--it was more than ever apparent that he was entirely truthful. She leaned back in her chair, laughing softly to herself. “Oh, my friend Mr. Leonard Tavernake,” she exclaimed, “if you were not so crudely, so adorably, so miraculously truthful, what a prig, prig, prig, you would be! The cutlets at last, thank goodness! Your cross-examination is over. I pronounce you 'Not Guilty!”' During the progress of the rest of the meal, they talked very little. At its conclusion, Tavernake discharged the bill, having carefully checked each item and tipped the waiter the exact amount which the man had the right to expect. They ascended the stairs together to the street, the girl lingering a few steps behind. On the pavement her fingers touched his arm. “I wonder, would you mind driving me down to the Embankment?” she asked almost humbly. “It was so close down there and I want some air.” This was an extravagance which he had scarcely contemplated, but he did not hesitate. He called a taxicab and seated himself by her side. Her manner seemed to have grown quieter and more subdued, her tone was no longer semi-belligerent.