“Well,” he queried, “what do you think of it?”

The little brunette, his companion, roused herself almost with a start, while a suggestion of conscious red tinged her face.  “I beg your pardon?” she said, inquiringly.

The man smiled.  “Forgotten already, wasn’t I?” he bantered.

“No, certainly not.  I—­”

A hand, delicate and carefully manicured as a woman’s, was raised in protest.  “Don’t prevaricate, please.  The occasion isn’t worth it.”  The hand returned to the chair-arm with a play of light upon the solitaire it bore.  The smile broadened.  “You were caught.  Confess, and the sentence will be lighter.”

As a wave recedes, the red flood began to ebb from the girl’s face.  “I confess, then.  I was—­thinking.”

“And I was—­forgotten.  My statement was correct.”

She looked up, and the two smiled companionably.

“Admitted.  I await the penalty.”

The man’s expression changed into mock sternness.  “Very well, Miss Baker; having heard your confession and remembering a promise to exercise clemency, this court is about to impose sentence.  Are you prepared to listen?”

“I’m growing stronger every minute.”

The court frowned, the heavy black eyebrows making the face really formidable.

“I fear the defendant doesn’t realize the enormity of the offence.  However, we’ll pass that by.  The sentence, Miss Baker, brings me back to the starting-point.  You are directed to answer the question just propounded, the question which for some inexplicable reason you didn’t hear.  What do you think of it—­this roof-garden, and things in general?” The stern voice paused; the brows relaxed, and he smiled again.  “But first, you’re sure you won’t have something more—­an ice, a wee bottle—­anything?”

The girl shook her head.

“Then let’s make room here at this table for a better man; to hint at vacating for a better woman would be heresy!  It’s pleasanter over there in the corner out of the light, where one can see the street.”

They found a vacant bench behind a skilfully arranged screen of palms, and Sidwell produced a cigar.

“In listening to a tale or a confession,” he explained, “one should always call in the aid of nicotine.  I fancy Munchausen’s listeners must have been smokers.”

The girl steadily inspected the dark mobile face, half concealed in the shadow.  “You’re making sport of me,” she announced presently.

Instantly her companion’s smile vanished.  “I beg your pardon, Miss Baker, but you misunderstood.  I thought by this time you knew me better than that.”

“You really are interested, then?  Would you truly like to know—­what you asked?”

“I truly would.”

Florence hesitated.  Her breath came a trifle more quickly.  She had not yet learned the trick of repression of the city folk.

“I think it’s wonderful,” she said.  “Everything is wonderful.  I feel like a child in fairyland; only the fairies must be giants.  This great building, for instance,—­I can’t make it seem a product of mere six-foot man!  In spite of myself, I keep expecting a great genie to emerge somewhere.  I suppose this seems silly to you, but it’s the feeling I have, and it makes me realize my own insignificance.”