Jocelyn Thew had come to a standstill before them. He was wearing no
overcoat and was bare-headed.

"I guess that chill is somewhere in your imagination, Mr. Crawshay,"
he observed. "You are pretty strong in that line, aren't you?"

Crawshay struggled to his feet.

"I have some ideas," he confessed modestly. "I spend my idle moments,
even here, weaving a little fiction."

"And recounting it, I dare say," Jocelyn ventured.

"I am like all artists," Crawshay sighed. "I love an audience. I must
express myself to something. I will wish you good evening, Miss
Beverley. I feel inclined to take a little walk, in case it becomes
too rough later on."

He shuffled away, once more the perfect prototype of the _malade
imaginaire_. Jocelyn Thew watched him in silence until he had
disappeared. Then he turned and seated himself by the girl's side.

"I find myself," he remarked ruminatively, "still a little troubled as
to the precise amount of intelligence which our friend Mr. Crawshay
might be said to possess. I wonder if I might ask; without your
considering it a liberty, what he was talking to you about?"

"About you," she answered.

"Ah!"