ere other reasons as well. I don't want to be alone. I
want to be cared for--I want to be cared for--when I saw you in Bond
Street, yesterday--I--I--I--Ju-Ju, do you care for me?"

"Yes," said Jones.

"I want to confess--I want to tell you something."

"Yes."

"If you didn't care for me--if I felt you didn't, I'd--"

"Yes."

"Kick right over the traces. I would. I couldn't go on as I have been
going, lonely, like a lost dog."

She raised his fingers and rubbed them along her lips.

"You will not be lonely," said the unfortunate man in a muted voice.
"You need not be afraid of that." The utter inadequacy of the remark
came to him like one of those nightmare recognitions encountered as a
rule only in Dreamland. Yet she seemed to find it sufficient, her mind
perhaps being engaged elsewhere.

"What would you have said if I had run away from you for good?" asked
she. "Would you have been sorry?"

"Yes--dreadfully."

"Are you glad I've come back?"

"I am."

"Honestly glad?"

"Yes."

"Really glad?"

"Yes."

"Truthfully, really, honestly glad?"

"Yes."

"Well, so am I," said she. She released his hand.

"Now go and play me something. I want something soothing after
Venetia--play me Chopin's Spianato--we used to be fond of that."

Now the only thing that Jones had ever played in his life was the Star
Spangled Banner and that with one finger--Chopin's Spianato!

"No," he said. "I'd rather talk."

"Well, talk then--mercy! There's the first gong."

A faint and far away sound invaded the room, throbbed and ceased. She
rose, picked up her gloves, which she had cast on a chair, and then
peeped at herself in a mirror by the piano.

"You have never kissed me," said she, speaking as it were half to
herself and half to him, seeming to be more engaged in a momentary
piercing criticism of the hat she was wearing than in thoughts of
kisses. He came towards her like a schoolboy, then, as she held up her
face he imprinted a chaste kiss upon her right cheek bone.

Then the most delightful thing that ever happened to mortal man happened
to him. Two warm palms suddenly took his face between them and two moist
lips met his own.

Then she was gone.

He took his seat on the music stool, dazed, dazzled, delighted, shocked,
frightened, triumphant.

The position was terrific.

Jones was no Lothario. He was a straight, plain, common-sensical man
with a high respect for women, and the position of leading charact