"But it isn't of your brother, but of _you_, that I am wanting to
speak! Tell me--"

"No--I can't. I am a frivolous old woman to be talking to you about
such things at all! But, since it is as you say, wait, perhaps I may
be able--But I must be going now--"

There was embarrassment in her now: and suddenly she walked away,
going to meet--another man.

She passed through stubble-wheat, disappeared in a pine-wood, and
came out upon the Waveney towing-path. On the towing-path came
Frankl to meet her.

He took her hand, holding his head sideward with a cajoling
fondness, wearing the flowing caftan, and a velvet cap which widened
out a-top, with puckers.

"Well, sweetheart..." he said.

"But, you know, I begged you not to use such words to me!"--from
her.

"What, and I who am such a sweetheart of yours?"--his speech very
foreign, yet slangily correct, being, in fact, _all_ slang.

"No," she said, "you spoke different at first, and that is why--But
this must be the last, unless you say out clearly now what it is you
mean--"