He studied her with an expression of sympathy bordering on pity, but without the least condescension; on the contrary, with a radiation of equality, of fellow-feeling that was perhaps his greatest charm. “Don’t mind what I’ve said,” he went on in the kindliest, friendliest tone. “I’m not fit to talk with young girls. I’ve got my training altogether in a world where there aren’t any young girls, but only experienced women of one kind and another. You’ve been brought up to a certain sort of life, and the only thing for you to do is to live it. I’ve been talking the creed of my sort of life, and that’s as different from your sort as wild duck from domestic.” He rose, gave a significant glance toward the windows through which clear sky and late afternoon light could be seen. She felt rather than saw his hint, and rose also. She looked round, gave a queer little laugh. “Am I awake--or still asleep?” said she. “I’m not feeling--or talking--or acting--a bit like my usual self.” She laughed again a little cynically. “My friends wouldn’t recognize me.” She looked at him, laughed again, with not a trace of cynicism. “I don’t recognize my present self,” she added. “It’s one that never was until I came here.” But Roger showed no disposition to respond to her coquetry. He said in matter-of-fact tones: “Do you live far? Hadn’t I better take you home?” “No, no!” she cried. “We mustn’t spoil it.” “Spoil what?” “The romance,” laughed she. He looked amused, like a much older person at a child’s whimsicalities. “Oh, I see! Once I was in a train in the Alps bound for Paris, and it halted beside a train bound for Constantinople. My window happened to be opposite that of a girl from Syria. We talked for half an hour. Then--we shook hands as the trains drew away from each other. This is to be like that? A good idea.” She was listening and observing with almost excited interest. “Didn’t you ever meet that Syrian girl again?” inquired she. He laughed carelessly, shrugged his shoulders. “Yes--unfortunately.” The girl’s face became shadowed. “You loved her?” His frank, boyish eyes twinkled good-humored mockery at her earnestness. “As you see, I survived,” said he. She frowned at him. “You’re very disappointing,” said she. “You’re not a bit romantic--are you?” “I save it all for my painting.” She laughingly put out her hand. They shook hands; he accompanied her to the door. She said: “I’d like to have a name to remember you by.” And she looked at him with candid and friendly admiration for his handsome bigness. “Not your real name. That wouldn’t be a bit romantic--and, as you see, I’m crazy about romance.” She sighed. “Probably because I never get any. Don’t laugh at me. You can’t understand my taste for candy, because with you--it’s been like keeping a confectionery shop.” “Yes--that’s true,” said he, looking at her with a new and more personal friendliness of sympathy. “So,” said she, with a wistful smile, “give me a name.”