insisted.

He did so without embarrassment or hesitation,--it was more than ever
apparent that he was entirely truthful. She leaned back in her chair,
laughing softly to herself.

"Oh, my friend Mr. Leonard Tavernake," she exclaimed, "if you were not
so crudely, so adorably, so miraculously truthful, what a prig,
prig, prig, you would be! The cutlets at last, thank goodness! Your
cross-examination is over. I pronounce you 'Not Guilty!"'

During the progress of the rest of the meal, they talked very little. At
its conclusion, Tavernake discharged the bill, having carefully checked
each item and tipped the waiter the exact amount which the man had the
right to expect. They ascended the stairs together to the street, the
girl lingering a few steps behind. On the pavement her fingers touched
his arm.

"I wonder, would you mind driving me down to the Embankment?" she asked
almost humbly. "It was so close down there and I want some air."

This was an extravagance which he had scarcely contemplated, but he did
not hesitate. He called a taxicab and seated himself by her side. Her
manner seemed to have grown quieter and more subdued, her tone was no
longer semi-belligerent.

"I will not keep you much longer," she promised. "I suppose I am not so
strong as I used to be. I have had scarcely anything to eat for two
days and conversation has become an unknown luxury. I think--it seems
absurd--but I think that I am feeling a little faint."

"The air will soon revive you," he said. "As to our conversation, I
am disappointed. I think that you are very foolish not to tell me more
about yourself."

She closed her eyes, ignoring his remark. They turned presently into a
narrower thoroughfare. She leaned towards him.

"You have been very good to me," she admitted almost timidly, "and I am
afraid that I have not been very gracious. We shall not see one another
again after this evening. I wonder--would you care to kiss me?"

He opened his lips and closed them again. He sat quite still, his eyes
fixed upon the road ahead, until he had strangled something absolutely
absurd, something unrecognizable.

"I would rather not," he decided quietly. "I know you mean to be kind
but that sort of thing--well, I don't think I understand it. Besides,"
he added with a sudden naive relief, as he clutched at a fugitive but
plausible thought, "if I did you would not believe the things which I
have been telling you."

He had a curious idea that sh