one in much for poetry, you know,"
he explained humbly.

"Burglars are natural poets, I suppose," she continued. "A burglar just
has to have imagination or he can't climb through the window of a house
he has never seen before. He must imagine everything perfectly--the
silver on the sideboard, the watch under the pillow, and the butler
stealing down the back stairs with a large, shiny pistol in his hand."

"Certainly," Deering agreed readily. "And if he runs into a policeman on
the way out he's got to imagine that it's an old college friend and
embrace him."

"You mustn't spoil a pretty idea that way!" she admonished in a tone that
greatly softened the rebuke. "Come to think of it, you haven't told me
your name yet; of course, if you become a burglar, you will have a great
number of names, but I'd like awfully to know your true one."

"Why?" he demanded.

"Because you seem nice and well brought up for a burglar, and I liked
your going up to the moon and poking your finger into it. That makes me
feel that I'd like to know you."

"Well, the circumstances being as they are, and being really a thief, you
mustn't ask me to tell my real name; for all I know you may be a
detective in disguise."

"I'm not--really," she said--he found her "reallys" increasingly
enchanting.

"You might call me Friar Tuck or Little John. I'm travelling with Robin
Hood, you remember."

"Mr. Tuck--that will be splendid!"

"And now that you know my name it's only fair to tell me yours."

"Pierrette," she answered.

"Not really!"

His unconscious imitation of her manner of uttering this phrase evoked
another merry laugh.

"Yes, really," she answered.

"And you live somewhere, of course--not in the tree up there with your
moon, but in the bungalow, I suppose."

"I live wherever I am; that's the fun of playing all the time," she
replied evasively. "_Poste restante_, the Little Dipper. How do you like
that?"

"But just now your true domicile is the bungalow?" he persisted.

"Oh, I've been stopping there for a few days, that's all. I haven't any
home--not really," she added as though she found her homelessness the
happiest of conditions. She snapped her fingers and recited:

"Wherever stars shine brightest, there my home shall be,
In the murmuring forest or by the sounding sea,
With overhead the green bough and underfoot the grass,
Where only dreams and butterflies ever dare to pass!"

"Is that Ke