She agreed, and he paid the bill, tipping the waiter discriminatingly.

As their hansom threaded its way through the crowded street she rarely
smiled, but her sombre eyes took in everything, and she "said things,"
as the boy put it, which he recalled and quoted years afterward.
Incidentally she talked of herself, though always without giving him a
clew as to who she was and where she came from. Several times, as a
face in the passing throng caught her interest, she outlined for him
in a few terse words the character of its possessor. He was
interested, but he must have unconsciously suggested a certain
unbelief in her intuition, for once she stopped speaking and looked at
him sharply.

"You think I don't know," she said, "but I do. We always know, until
we kill the gift with conventionalities. We're born with an intuitive
knowledge of character. Savages have it, and animals, and babies. We
lose it as we advance in civilization, for then we distrust our
impressions and force our likes and dislikes to follow the dictates of
policy. I've worked hard to keep and develop my insight, and behold my
reward! I recognized you at the first glance as the perfect companion
of a day."

The boy's face flamed with pleasure.

"Then it is a success?"

"It is a success. But it's also five o'clock. What next?"

"Then it's been a success?" he repeated, dreamily--"so far, I mean.
We've done so little in one way, but I'm awfully glad you've liked it.