but he
didn't, and she liked him all the better for it. He did, however, put
his hand through her arm and draw her just a little closer to him. Then
he leant back in the cab, and, as the light from a big gin palace lamp
flashed on to her face, he said:

"Well, this _is_ jolly. I'm so glad you came. I feel just in the humour
for a good supper in pleasant society."

"Thank you," she said, with a little toss of her head; "but how do you
know my society is going to be pleasant?"

"Oh, it couldn't be anything else," he laughed. "You are far too pretty
not to be nice."

"Thanks," she said gravely. "Are all the pretty girls you know nice?
Don't you find some of them horribly conceited and dull? Lots of fellows
I know say so."

"Lots of fellows!" he echoed. "Then you have a pretty extensive
acquaintance----"

"Why, of course I have," she interrupted, cutting him short almost
roughly. Then she went on with a swift change of tone, "Don't you see
that a--a girl like me has _got_ to know plenty of fellows? It's--well,
it's business, and that's the brutal truth of it."

She turned her head away and looked out of the cab window as though she
didn't want him to see the expression that came over her face as she
said the last few words.

But though he did not see the change in her face, the change in her
voice struck him like a jarring note in a harmony that he was beginning
to find very pleasant. He felt a sort of momentary resentment. He knew,
of course, that it was the "brutal truth," but just then he disliked
being reminded of it--especially by her. She seemed a great deal too
nice for _that_ to be true of her. There was a little pause, rather an
awkward one, during which he tried to think of the proper thing to say.
Of course he didn't succeed, so he just blurted out:

"Oh, never mind about brutal truths just now, little girl."

There was another pause, during which she still kept her head turned
away. Then he went on with a happy inconsequence:

"By the way, has it struck you yet that we're rather like each other?"

"Is that a compliment to me or to yourself?" she said, half gravely, and
yet with a belying gleam of mischief in her eyes.

"Oh, a likeness like that could only be a compliment to me, of course,"
he replied, and before the conversation could proceed any farther the
cab stopped at the entrance to the Trocadero.

By great good luck they procured one of the little side tables in the
inner room just as a