"'Tain't my idea of fun, helping a lame duck over a stile. It's good of you, anyway. Penny fare." They boarded a bus and she leaned down and prodded at her ankle to discover where and how much it hurt. "It's only ricked, I think," she said. "It feels like your neck when your head goes gammy. I don't think it's a sprain." René was filled with admiration of her vivacious prettiness. She had an oval face; a dark complexion beautifully colored, ivory most delicately colored with crimson; wide-set eyes that were still merry in spite of the pain smoldering in them; a pouting mouth that, as she talked, showed perfect teeth, small and even brilliant, strong as an animal's dark hair neatly arranged under a rather common hat. She had a necklet of imitation pearls round her soft throat. Her dress was neat, but just a little shabby. She laughed lightly, and her laughter lit up her face with a radiant happiness. "What you might call being thrown together," she said. He could not but smile with her. "I'm rather glad," he answered. "Do you know that I hadn't spoken to a soul but a railway porter and a policeman since early morning?" "Reely," said she. "I think I'd die if I couldn't talk. Here's where we get off. O-o-oh!" She hung more heavily on his arm as they descended. They stood for a moment to watch the bus jolt back into its top gear and go roaring up the wide and almost empty street. "It's not far." They moved slowly for some fifty yards, past empty shops, until they came to an archway plastered on either side with the bills of local music-halls, and lit with an old gas-jet. Through the archway they turned and came to a dark place, very quiet, with long low buildings on either side of it, and a great litter of paper and refuse on the pavement, and handcarts and vans uptilted. The ground floors of the buildings were all taken up with doors, the first floors with little windows, in some of which were flower-boxes and bird-cages and hanging ferns. One or two of the windows were lit up. From the other end, far up, came the glaring lights of a motor-car. It stopped, and they could hear the purr of its sweetly running engine. "That's Mr. Ripley," said the young woman. "He's often out at night. He's a oner, he is. Down to Brighton and back and all that, you know." René did not know, but he was pleased and excited. London had ceased to be a spectacle to him. He had been drawn into an adventure, taken to a place where people lived--and a very strange place--the friendliest of hands was on his arm, the cheeriest of voices ringing in his ears. II MITCHAM MEWS Do not her dark eyes tell thee thou art not despised? The Heaven's messenger! All Heaven's blessings be hers. "I'M sorry," she said, "but you'll have to help me upstairs. Wasn't I a fool to go and get tripped up like that?--O-o-h! Hercules!"