“Why, of course,” she replied, with a little air of surprise. “Did we not have many walks together in the old days? Do you think I have forgotten? And you want friends so, so badly that even poor little me may be of some good. Come.” They moved away together, and walked some steps in silence. He was too dazed with the sudden realisation of his yearning for human tenderness to find adequate speech. At last he said harshly:-- “You know what you are doing? You are in the company of a man who committed a disgraceful crime and has rotted in a gaol for two years.” “Ah, don’t say such things,” said Madame Latour. “You hurt me. There are hundreds of people in this great London, honoured and respected, who have done far worse than you. Hundreds of thousands,” she added, with exaggerated conviction. “Besides, you are still my good, kind friend. What has passed cannot alter that.” “I can’t understand it yet,” he said lamely. “You are the first who has said a kind word to me.” “Poor fellow!” said Yvonne again. They emerged into the Bayswater Road. Before he had time to remonstrate, she had hailed an omnibus going eastward. “We will get out at the corner of the Park. You mustn’t walk too much.” The ’bus stopped. He entered with her and sat down by her side. When the conductor came for the fares, Yvonne opened her purse quickly; but a flush came over her companion’s pale face as he divined her intention. “You must let me,” he said, producing a couple of pence from his pocket. The rattling of the vehicle prevented serious conversation. The talk drifted naturally into the desultory commonplace. Madame Latour explained that she had been giving the last singing lesson of the season at a house on the other side of Holland Park, that her pupil had neither ear nor voice, and that by the time she had learned the accompaniment to a song it had already grown out of date. “People are so stupid, you know.” She said it with such an air of conviction, as if she had discovered a brand-new truth, that the man smiled. She noted it with her quick, feminine glance, and felt gladdened. It was so much better to laugh than to cry. She was encouraged to chatter lightly upon passing glimpses of people in the street, of amusing incidents in her profession as a concert singer. When the ’bus stopped, she jumped out, disregarding his gravely offered hand, and laughed, her face glowing with animation. “Oh, how nice it is to be with you again!” she said, as they crossed to the entrance gate of Kensington Gardens. “Say that you are glad you met me.” “It is like a drop of water on the tongue of the damned,” he said in a low voice--too low, however, for her to hear, for she continued to look up at him, all smiles and sweetness.