“Very likely we would better,” he managed to reply--rather severely, for the “had better” phrase always annoyed him. “It seems as if I must have met you somewhere,” he ventured next. “No, we haven't met.” “My name is Mann.” “Yes,” said she, “I know it.” “Then suppose you tell me yours?” “Why?” Peter could not think of a reason why. Deeply as he was supposed to understand women, here was a new variety. She was inclined neither to flirt nor to run away. “How is it that you know who I am?” he asked, sparring for time.. She gave a careless shrug. “Oh, most every one is known, here in the Village.” Peter was always at his best when recognized as _the_ Eric Mann. His spirits rose a bit. “Might I suggest that we have a cup of tea somewhere?” She knit her brows. “Yes,” she replied slowly, even doubtfully, “you might.” “Of course, if you--” “Jim's isn't far. Let's go there.” Jim's was an oyster and chop emporium of ancient fame in the Village. They sat at a rear table. The place was empty save for an old waiter who shuffled through the sprinkling of sawdust on the floor, and a fat grandson of the original Jim who stood by the open grill that was set in the wall at the rear end of the oyster bar. Over the tea Peter said, expanding now--“Perhaps this is reason enough for you to tell me who you are.” “Perhaps what is?” He smilingly passed the toast. She took a slice, and considered it. “You see,” he went on, “if I am not to know, how on earth am I to manage seeing you again?” She slowly inclined her head. “That's just it.” It was Peter's turn to knit his brow's. “How can I be sure that I want you to see me again?” He waved an exasperated hand. “Then why are we here?” “To find out.” At least he could smoke. He opened his cigarette case. Then, though he never felt right about women smoking, he extended it toward her. “Thanks,” said she, taking one and casually lighting it. Yes, she _had_ fine hands. And he had noted when she took off her coat and reached up to hang it on the wall rack, her youth-like suppleness of body. A provocative person! “I've seen some of your plays,” she observed, elbows on table, chin on hand, gazing at the smoke-wraiths of her cigarette. “Two or three. _Odd Change_ and _Anchored_ and--what was it called?” “_The Buzzard?_” “Yes, _The Buzzard_. They were dreadful.” The color slowly left Peter's face. The girl was speaking without the slightest self-consciousness or wish to offend. She meant it. Peter managed to recover some part of his poise. “Well!” he said. Then: “If they were all dreadful, why didn't you stop after the first?” “Oh.”--she waved her cigarette--“_Odd Change_ came to town when I was in college, and--” “So you're a college girl?”