So they fared forth, two dark figures, choosing quieter streets than those she usually trod, the tapping of her high heels falling with a smart regularity on the stillness held between the silver-washed walls. They were rather silent, conversation broken by periods when their mingled footfalls beat clear on the large, enfolding mutter of the city sinking to sleep. It was his fault; heretofore he had been the leader, conducting her by a crafty discursiveness toward those confidences she so resolutely withheld. But tonight he did not want to talk, trailing lazy steps beside her, casting thoughtful glances upward at the vast, illumined sky. It made her nervous; there was something of a deep, disturbing intimacy about it; not a sweet and soothing intimacy, but portentous and agitating. She tried to be herself, laid about for bright things to say and found she could pump up no defiant buoyancy, her tongue clogged, her spirit oppressed by a disintegrating inner distress. It did not make matters any better when he said in a dreamy tone: "Why are you so quiet?" "I've worked hard tonight. I'm tired and you're walking so fast." He was immediately contrite, slackening his step, which in truth was very slow. "Oh, Pancha, what a brute I am. Why didn't you tell me?" And he took her hand and tried to draw it through his arm. But she resisted, pulling away from him almost pettishly, shrinking from his touch. "No, no, let me alone. I like to walk by myself." He drew back with a slight shrug, more amused than repulsed. Nevertheless he was rather sorry he had suggested the walk, he had never known her to be less entertaining. "Always proud, always independent, always keeping her guard up." He cast a questioning side glance at her face, grave and pale by his shoulder. "You wild thing, can no one tame you?" "Why do you say I'm wild?" "Because you are. How long have I known you? Since early in September and I don't get any nearer. You still keep me guessing." "About what?" "About _what_?" He leaned down and spied at her profile. "About yourself." "Oh, me!" "Yes, you--what else? You're the most secretive little sphinx outside Egypt." She did not answer for a moment. She _had_ been secretive, but it was about the humble surroundings of her youth, those ignominious beginnings of hers. Of this she could not bring herself to tell, fearful that it would lower her in his esteem. She saw him, hearing of the Buon Gusto restaurant and the life along the desert, withdrawing from her in shocked repugnance. About other things--the stage, the lovers--she had been frank, almost confidential. "I don't see why you say that," she protested; "I've told you any amount of stuff." "But not everything. You know that, Pancha."