it hard steering but assures me that there’s anchorage ahead. . . .  He’s a splendid fellow, Gerald; you ought to know him—­well—­some day; he’s just a clean-cut, human, blundering, erring, unreasonable,lovable man whom any woman, who is not a fool herself, could manage. . . .  Some day I should like to have you know him—­intimately.  He’s good for people of your sort—­even good for a restless, purposeless woman of my sort.  Peace to him!—­if there’s any in the world. . . .  Turn your back; I’m sniveling.”

A moment afterward she had calmed completely; and now she stole a curious side glance at the boy and blushed a little when he looked back at her earnestly.  Then she smiled and quietly withdrew the hand he had been holding so tightly in both of his.

“So there we are, my poor friend,” she concluded with a shrug; “the old penny shocker, you know, ’Alone in a great city!’—­I’ve dropped my handkerchief.”

“I want you to believe me your friend,” said Gerald, in the low, resolute voice of unintentional melodrama.

“Why, thank you; are you so sure you want that, Gerald?”

“Yes, as long as I live!” he declared, generous emotion in the ascendant.  A pretty woman upset him very easily even under normal circumstances.  But beauty in distress knocked him flat—­as it does every wholesome boy who is worth his salt.

And he said so in his own naive fashion; and the more eloquent he grew the more excited he grew and the deeper and blacker appeared her wrongs to him.

At first she humoured him, and rather enjoyed his fresh, eager sympathy; after a little his increasing ardour inclined her to laugh; but it was very splendid and chivalrous and genuine ardour, and the inclination to laugh died out, for emotion is contagious, and his earnestness not only flattered her legitimately but stirred the slackened tension of her heart-strings until, tightening again, they responded very faintly.

“I had no idea that you were lonely,” he declared.

“Sometimes I am, a little, Gerald.”  She ought to have known better.  Perhaps she did.

“Well,” he began, “couldn’t I come and—­”

“No, Gerald.”

“I mean just to see you sometimes and have another of these jolly talks—­”

“Do you call this a jolly talk?”—­with deep reproach.

“Why—­not exactly; but I’m awfully interested, Mrs. Ruthven, and we understand each other so well—­”

“I don’t understand you”, she was imprudent enough to say.

This was delightful!  Certainly he must be a particularly sad and subtle dog if this clever but misunderstood young matron found him what in romance is known as an “enigma.”

So he protested with smiling humility that he was quite transparent; she insisted on doubting him and contrived to look disturbed in her mind concerning the probable darkness of that past so dear to any young man who has had none.