though to rise. He was worried. A nut,
that's what. She pressed him down again with a hard brown hand.

"Now it's all right. He's going. Old Fuss!" The policeman stood a brief
moment longer. Then the foliage rustled again. He was gone. The girl
sighed, happily. "Play that thing some more, will you? You're a wiz at
it, aren't you?"

"I'm pretty good," said Nick, modestly. Then the outrageousness of her
conduct struck him afresh. "Say, who're you, anyway?"

"My name's Berry--short for Bernice.... What's yours, Pan?"

"Nick--that is--Nick."

"Ugh, terrible! I'll stick to Pan. What d'you do when you're not
Panning?" Then, at the bewilderment in his face: "What's your job?"

"I work in the Ideal Garage. Say, you're pretty nosey, ain't you?"

"Yes, pretty.... That accounts for your nails, h'm?" She looked at her
own brown paws. "'Bout as bad as mine. I drove one hundred and fifty
miles to-day."

"Ya-as, you did!"

"I did! Started at six. And I'll probably drive back to-night."

"You're crazy!"

"I know it," she agreed, "and it's wonderful.... Can you play the Tommy
Toddle?"

"Yeh. It's kind of hard, though, where the runs are. I don't get the
runs so very good." He played it. She kept time with head and feet. When
he had finished and wiped his lips:

"Elegant!" She took the harmonica from him, wiped it brazenly on the
much-abused, rose-coloured handkerchief and began to play, her cheeks
puffed out, her eyes round with effort. She played the Tommy Toddle, and
her runs were perfect. Nick's chagrin was swallowed by his admiration
and envy.

"Say, kid, you got more wind than a factory whistle. Who learned you to
play?"

She struck her chest with a hard brown fist. "Tennis ... Tim taught me."

"Who's Tim?"

"The--a chauffeur."

Nick leaned closer. "Say, do you ever go to the dances at Englewood
Masonic Hall?"

"I never have."

"'Jah like to go some time?"

"I'd love it." She grinned up at him, her teeth flashing white in her
brown face.

"It's swell here," he said, dreamily. "Like the woods?"

"Yes."

"Winter, when it's cold and dirty, I think about how it's here summers.
It's like you could take it out of your head and look at it whenever you
wanted to."

"Endymion."

"Huh?"

"A man said practically the same thing the other day. Name of Keats."

"Yeh?"

"He said: 'A thing of beauty is a joy forever.'"

"That's one way putting it," he agreed, graciously.

Unsmilingly she reached over wi