t on ten."

"Ten!" Jill was horrified. "Why, I have been giving you cramp for
about three hours! You must have had an awful time!"

"Oh, it was all right. I think I dozed off myself. Except that the
birds didn't come and cover us with leaves; it was rather like the
'Babes in the Wood.'"

"But you haven't had any breakfast! Aren't you starving?"

"Well, I'm not saying I wouldn't spear a fried egg with some vim if it
happened to float past. But there's plenty of time for that. Lots of
doctors say you oughtn't to eat breakfast, and Indian fakirs go
without food for days at a time in order to develop their souls. Shall
I take you back to wherever you're staying? You ought to get a proper
sleep in bed."

"Don't dream of taking me. Go off and have something to eat."

"Oh, that can wait. I'd like to see you safely home."

Jill was conscious of a renewed sense of his comfortingness. There was
no doubt about it, Wally was different from any other man she had
known. She suddenly felt guilty, as if she were obtaining something
valuable under false pretences.

"Wally!"

"Hullo?"

"You--you oughtn't to be so good to me!"

"Nonsense! Where's the harm in lending a hand--or, rather, an arm--to
a pal in trouble?"

"You know what I mean. I can't ... that is to say ... it isn't as
though ... I mean...."

Wally smiled a tired, friendly smile.

"If you're trying to say what I think you're trying to say, don't! We
had all that out two weeks ago. I quite understand the position. You
mustn't worry yourself about it." He took her arm, and they crossed
the boardwalk. "Are we going in the right direction? You lead the way.
I know exactly how you feel. We're old friends, and nothing more. But,
as an old friend, I claim the right to behave like an old friend. If
an old friend can't behave like an old friend, how _can_ an old friend
behave? And now we'll rule the whole topic out of the conversation.
But perhaps you're too tired for conversation?"

"Oh, no."

"Then I will tell you about the sad death of young Mr. Pilkington."

"What!"

"Well, when I say death, I use the word in a loose sense. The human
giraffe still breathes, and I imagine, from the speed with which he
legged it back to his hotel when we parted, that he still takes
nourishment. But really he is dead. His heart is broken. We had a
conference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend Mr. Goble told
him in no uncertain words--in the whole course of my experience