“I will not keep you much longer,” she promised. “I suppose I am not so strong as I used to be. I have had scarcely anything to eat for two days and conversation has become an unknown luxury. I think--it seems absurd--but I think that I am feeling a little faint.” “The air will soon revive you,” he said. “As to our conversation, I am disappointed. I think that you are very foolish not to tell me more about yourself.” She closed her eyes, ignoring his remark. They turned presently into a narrower thoroughfare. She leaned towards him. “You have been very good to me,” she admitted almost timidly, “and I am afraid that I have not been very gracious. We shall not see one another again after this evening. I wonder--would you care to kiss me?” He opened his lips and closed them again. He sat quite still, his eyes fixed upon the road ahead, until he had strangled something absolutely absurd, something unrecognizable. “I would rather not,” he decided quietly. “I know you mean to be kind but that sort of thing--well, I don't think I understand it. Besides,” he added with a sudden naive relief, as he clutched at a fugitive but plausible thought, “if I did you would not believe the things which I have been telling you.” He had a curious idea that she was disappointed as she turned her head away, but she said nothing. Arrived at the Embankment, the cab came slowly to a standstill. The girl descended. There was something new in her manner; she looked away from him when she spoke. “You had better leave me here,” she said. “I am going to sit upon that seat.” Then came those few seconds' hesitation which were to count for a great deal in his life. The impulse which bade him stay with her was unaccountable but it conquered. “If you do not object,” he remarked with some stiffness, “I should like to sit here with you for a little time. There is certainly a breeze.” She made no comment but walked on. He paid the man and followed her to the empty seat. Opposite, some illuminated advertisements blazed their unsightly message across the murky sky. Between the two curving rows of yellow lights the river flowed--black, turgid, hopeless. Even here, though they had escaped from its absolute thrall, the far-away roar of the city beat upon their ears. She listened to it for a moment and then pressed her hands to the side of her head. “Oh, how I hate it!” she moaned. “The voices, always the voices, calling, threatening, beating you away! Take my hands, Leonard Tavernake,--hold me.” He did as she bade him, clumsily, as yet without comprehension. “You are not well,” he muttered. Her eyes opened and a flash of her old manner returned. She smiled at him, feebly but derisively. “You foolish boy!” she cried. “Can't you see that I am dying? Hold my hands tightly and watch--watch! Here is one more thing you can see--that you cannot understand.”