th one slim forefinger, as if compelled,
and touched the blond hairs on Nick's wrist. Just touched them. Nick
remained motionless. The girl shivered a little, deliciously. She
glanced at him shyly. Her lips were provocative. Thoughtlessly, blindly,
Nick suddenly flung an arm about her, kissed her. He kissed her as he
had never kissed Miss Bauers--as he had never kissed Miss Ahearn, Miss
Olson, or just Gertie. The girl did not scream, or push him away, or
slap him, or protest, or giggle as would have the above-mentioned young
ladies. She sat breathing rather fast, a tinge of scarlet showing
beneath the tan.

"Well, Pan," she said, low-voiced, "you're running true to form,
anyway." She eyed him appraisingly. "Your appeal is in your virility, I
suppose. Yes."

"My what?"

She rose. "I've got to go."

Panic seized him. "Say, don't drive back to-night, huh? Wherever it is
you've got to go. You ain't driving back to-night?"

She made no answer; parted the bushes, was out on the gravel path in the
sunlight, a slim, short-skirted, almost childish figure. He followed.
They crossed the bridge, left the island, reached the roadway almost in
silence. At the side of the road was a roadster. Its hood was the kind
that conceals power. Its lamps were two giant eyes rimmed in precious
metal. Its line spelled strength. Its body was foreign. Nick's
engine-wise eyes saw these things at a glance.

"That your car?"

"Yes."

"Gosh!"

She unlocked it, threw in the clutch, shifted, moved. "Say!" was wrung
from Nick helplessly. She waved at him. "Good-bye, Pan." He stared,
stricken. She was off swiftly, silently; flashed around a corner; was
hidden by the trees and shrubs.

He stood a moment. He felt bereaved, cheated. Then a little wave of
exaltation shook him. He wanted to talk to someone. "Gosh!" he said
again. He glanced at his wrist. Five-thirty. He guessed he'd go home.
He guessed he'd go home and get one of Ma's dinners. One of Ma's dinners
and talk to Ma. The Sixty-third Street car. He could make it and back in
plenty time.

Nick lived in that section of Chicago known as Englewood, which is not
so sylvan as it sounds, but appropriate enough for a faun. Not only
that; he lived in S. Green Street, Englewood. S. Green Street, near
Seventieth, is almost rural with its great elms and poplars, its frame
cottages, its back gardens. A neighbourhood of thrifty, foreign-born
fathers and mothers, many children, tree-lined streets ba