"Oh, I must. I live with her."

"Will she trouble about you?"

"I think she will return for me. Please, _please_ go--would you mind?--
to the corner, and see if there has been an accident."

From that direction a bicyclist approached. George hailed. "Is there a
cab accident round the corner?"

The youth stared; called "Rats!"; passed.

George interpreted: "It means No. Do you think if you were to take my
arm you could walk to the turning?"

Quite naturally she slipped a white glove around his elbow. The
contact thrilled him. "No nice girl, you know, would do this," she
said, "with a perfect stranger."

George bent his arm a little, the better to feel the pressure of those
white fingers. "I am not really perfect," he told her.

She took his mood. "Nor I really nice," she joined. "In fact, I'm
horrible--they tell me. But I think it is wise to follow, don't you?"

"Profoundly wise. Who says you are horrible?"

She gave no answer. Glancing, he saw trouble shade her eyes, tremble
her lips.