“I’m sure of that, but hear me out.  There’s something about you that—­that’s got me.  I can’t forget you.  I only want to know what you care to give—­the part that escapes the disguise that you wear!  I want to talk to you.  I bet we have a lot to say to each other.  Don’t you see it would be like fencing behind a shield?  But how can we make this out unless we utilize chances that might, if people were not decent and honest, be wrong?  I know I’m getting all snarled up—­but I’m trying to make you understand.”

“You’re not doing it very well.”  Joan was sweetly composed.

“Now suppose you and I were introduced—­you with your veil off—­that would be all right, wouldn’t it?”

Raymond was collecting his scattered wits.

“Presumably.  Yes—­it would,” Joan returned.

“And then we could have all the talks we wanted to, couldn’t we?”

“Within proper limitations,” Joan nodded, comically prim under the circumstances.

“But for reasons best known to you,” Raymond went on, slowly, “you want to keep the shield up?  All right.  But then if we want the talks——­”

“I don’t want them!” Joan’s voice shook.  Poor, lonely little thing, she wanted exactly that!

“I bet that’s not true!” ventured Raymond.  Then suddenly: 

“Why do you laugh as you do?”

“What’s the matter with my laugh?”

“I don’t know.  It’s old and it’s awfully kiddish—­it’s rather upsetting.  I keep remembering it as I always shall your face now that I have seen it!”

Truth can take care of itself if it has half a chance.  It was beginning to grip Joan through the mists that shrouded her—­mists that life has evolved for the protection of those who might never be able to distinguish between the wolf in sheep’s skin and sheep in wolf hide.

Joan knew the ancient code of propriety, but she knew, also, the ring of truth and she was young and lonely.  She knew she ought not to be playing with wild animals, but she was also sure in the deepest and most sincere parts of her brain that the man beside her, strange as it might seem, was really a very nice and well-behaved domestic animal and was making rather a comical exhibition of himself in the skin of the beast of prey.

“You haven’t told me where you are going,” Raymond said, presently.

“Home!” The one word had the dreary, empty sound that it could not help having when Joan considered the studio with Sylvia gone and Patricia an uncertain element.

“Are you?” Raymond asked, lamely.  One had to say something or turn back.  Joan felt like crying.  Then suddenly Raymond said: 

“I wish you’d come and have dinner with me, and I’m not going to excuse myself or explain anything.  I know I’m using all the worn-out tricks of fellows that are anything but decent; but I know that you know—­though how you do I’m blest if I know—­but I know that you understand.  The thing’s too big for me.  I’ve just got to risk it!  I’m lonely and I bet you are; we’ve got to eat—­why not eat together?”