friendly. It had an oddly sympathetic quality in it as well. His
spirits rose a trifle.

"You must think me an awful duffer," he murmured, contritely. "I'm not
always like this, I assure you."

"I know," she assented. "I understand. Walk on with me. Possibly I may
be able to help you."

He bowed assent and the two walked toward the crowded square.

"You're awfully good," he said, feeling reassured, yet still boyish
and embarrassed. "I don't want to be a nuisance, but if you'll just
put me right, somehow--start me on a path that will lead me home--"

The entire idiocy of this struck him. He stopped again, then burst
into his contagious, youthful laughter, in which she instantly joined.
The mellow contralto and the clear tenor formed a soft and pleasant
duet, but Varick noticed that not a head in the crowd around them
turned their way, nor did an eye of all the peasant throng give them a
glance. He spoke of this to his companion as they continued their
walk.

"The most surprising thing to me in all this--unusualness," he said,
"is the cool manner in which these beggars ignore us. You know how
such people gape, usually; but not a soul among all these people seems
to know we're here."

She looked at him with a gentle amusement and sympathy in her brown
eyes.