He was beginning to think about her inordinately. Courtlaw rose to his feet. ” “Who are you?” “I am a friend of Miss Pellissier’s,” Courtlaw answered. “Silly!” he remarked after a pause. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. She withdrew her head with a little moan, and resumed her flight. . Why should she? she asked rebelliously.
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