“Gee!  I’m afraid I don’t know a single thing to teach you.”

“Yes, but—­See here!  We are two lonely Western barbarians in a strange land.  We’ll play together for a little while.  We’re not used to each other’s sort of play, but that will break up the monotony of life all the more.  I don’t know how long we’ll play or—­Shall we?”

“Oh yes!”

“Now show me how you play.”

“I don’t believe I ever did much, really.”

“Well, you shall take me to your kind of a restaurant.”

“I don’t believe you’d care much for penny meat-pies.”

“Little meat-pies?”

“Um-huh.”

“Little crispy ones?  With flaky covers?”

“Um-huh.”

“Why, course I would!  And ha’p’ny tea?  Lead me to it, O brave knight!  And to a vaudeville.”

He found that this devoted attendant of theaters had never seen the beautiful Italians who pounce upon protesting zylophones with small clubs, or the side-splitting juggler’s assistant who breaks up piles and piles of plates.  And as to the top hat that turns into an accordion and produces much melody, she was ecstatic.

At after-theater supper he talked of Theresa and South Beach, of
Charley Carpenter and Morton—­Morton—­Morton.

They sat, at midnight, on the steps of the house in Tavistock Place.

“I do know you now, “she mused.  “It’s curious how any two babes in a strange-enough woods get acquainted.  You are a lonely child, aren’t you?” Her voice was mother-soft.  “We will play just a little—­”

“I wish I had some games to teach.  But you know so much.”

“And I’m a perfect beauty, too, aren’t I?” she said, gravely.

“Yes, you are!” stoutly.

“You would be loyal....  And I need some one’s admiration....  Mostly, Paris and London hold their sides laughing at poor Istra.”

He caught her hand.  “Oh, don’t!  They must ’preciate you.  I’d like to kill anybody that didn’t!”

“Thanks.”  She gave his hand a return pressure and hastily withdrew her own.  “You’ll be good to some sweet pink face....  And I’ll go on being discontented.  Oh, isn ’t life the fiercest proposition!...  We seem different, you and I, but maybe it’s mostly surface—­down deep we’re alike in being desperately unhappy because we never know what we’re unhappy about.  Well—­”

He wanted to put his head down on her knees and rest there.  But he sat still, and presently their cold hands snuggled together.

After a silence, in which they were talking of themselves, he burst out:  “But I don’t see how Paris could help ’preciating you.  I’ll bet you’re one of the best artists they ever saw....  The way you made up a picture in your mind about that juggler!”

“Nope.  Sorry.  Can’t paint at all.”

“Ah, stuff!” with a rudeness quite masterful.  “I’ll bet your pictures are corkers.”