"Yes, we are
fellow-prisoners. I'm bored to extermination too. Still," she added,
"one is allowed out on parole, now and again. And sometimes one has
really quite delightful little experiences."

"It would ill become me, in the present circumstances, to dispute that,"
he answered, bowing.

"But the castle waits to reclaim us afterwards, doesn't it?" she mused.
"That's rather a happy image, Castle Ennui."

"I'm extremely glad you approve of it. Castle Ennui is the bastile of
modern life. It is built of prunes and prisms; it has its outer court of
convention, and its inner court of propriety; it is moated round by
respectability, and the shackles its inmates wear are forged of dull
little duties and arbitrary little rules. You can only escape from it at
the risk of breaking your social neck, or remaining a fugitive from
social justice to the end of your days. Yes, it _is_ a fairly decent
little image."

"A bit out of something you're preparing for the press?" she hinted.

"Oh, how unkind of you!" he cried. "It was absolutely extemporaneous."

"One can never tell, with _vous autres gens-de-lettres_," she laughed.

"It would be friendlier to say _nous autres gens d'esprit_," he
submitted.

"Aren't we proving to what degree _nous autres gens d'esprit sont
betes_," she remarked, "by continuing to walk along this narrow
pavement, when we can get into Kensington Gardens by merely crossing the
street. Would it take you out of your way?"

"I have no way. I was sauntering for pleasure, if you can believe me. I
wish I could hope that you have no way either. Then we could stop here,
and crack little jokes together the livelong afternoon," he said, as
they entered the Gardens.

"Alas, my way leads straight back to the Castle. I've promised to call
on an old woman in Campden Hill," said she.

"Disappoint her. It's good for old women to be disappointed. It whips up
their circulation."

"I shouldn't much regret disappointing the old woman," she admitted,
"and I should rather like an hour or two of stolen freedom. I don't mind
owning that I've generally found you, as men go, a moderately
interesting man to talk with. But the deuce of it is--You permit the
expression?"

"I'm devoted to the expression."

"The deuce of it is, I'm supposed to be driving," she explained.

"Oh, that doesn't matter. So many suppositions in this world are
baseless," he reminded her.

"But there's the prison van," she said. "It's one of the