As he fell back into his chair Trent was conscious of a feeling of
intimacy, and strange as it was, it dispelled instantly his engrossing
shyness.

"I'm not bored," he said, "I'm merely puzzled."

"Oh, I know," Gerty nodded, "but you'll get over it. I puzzle everybody
at first, but it doesn't last because I'm really as clear as running
water. My gayety and my good spirits are but the joys of flippancy, you
see."

"I don't see," protested Trent, his eyes warming.

She laughed softly, as if rather pleased than otherwise by the frankness
of his admiration. "You haven't lost as yet the divine faith of youth,"
she said, carelessly flicking the ashes of her cigarette upon the little
table at her elbow. Then, tossing the burned end into a silver tray, she
pushed it from her with a decisive movement. "I've had six," she
observed, "and that's my limit."

"What I'm trying to understand," confessed Trent, leaning forward in his
earnestness, "is why you should care so greatly for Miss Wilde?"

Gerty flashed up suddenly from her cushions. "And pray why shouldn't I?"
she demanded.

"Because," he hesitated an instant and then advanced with the audacity
born of ignorance, "you're as much alike as a thrush and a paroquet."

She laughed again.