“That’s true, they don’t—­not as a general rule.  Especially women like you.  You’re alone, a stranger, and too beautiful.  I don’t say that to flatter you.  You are beautiful, and you undoubtedly know it.  To let you go on alone and unprotected among three or four thousand men like most of those up there would be a crime.  And the women, too—­the Little Sisters.  They’d blast you.  If you had a husband, a brother or a father waiting for you it would be different.  But you’ve told me you haven’t.  You have made me change my mind about my book.  You are of more interest to me just now than that.  Will you believe me?  Will you let me be a friend, if you need a friend?”

To Aldous it seemed that she drew herself up a little proudly.  For a moment she seemed taller.  A rose-flush of colour spread over her cheeks.  She drew her hand from him.  And yet, as she looked at him, he could see that she was glad.

“Yes, I believe you,” she said.  “But I must not accept your offer of friendship.  You have done more for me now than I can ever repay.  Friendship means service, and to serve me would spoil your plans, for you are in great haste to complete your book.”

“If you mean that you need my assistance, the book can wait.”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she cut in quickly, her lips tightening slightly.  “It was utterly absurd of me to hint that I might require assistance—­that I cannot take care of myself.  But I shall be proud of the friendship of John Aldous.”

“Yes, you can take care of yourself, Ladygray,” said Aldous softly, looking into her eyes and yet speaking as if to himself.  “That is why you have broken so curiously into my life.  It’s that—­and not your beauty.  I have known beautiful women before.  But they were—­just women, frail things that might snap under stress.  I have always thought there is only one woman in ten thousand who would not do that—­under certain conditions.  I believe you are that one in ten thousand.  You can go on to Tete Jaune alone.  You can go anywhere alone—­and care for yourself.”

He was looking at her so strangely that she held her breath, her lips parted, the flush in her cheeks deepening.

“And the strangest part of it all is that I have always known you away back in my imagination,” he went on.  “You have lived there, and have troubled me.  I could not construct you perfectly.  It is almost inconceivable that you should have borne the same name—­Joanne.  Joanne, of ‘Fair Play.’”

She gave a little gasp.

“Joanne was—­terrible,” she cried.  “She was bad—­bad to the heart and soul of her!”

“She was splendid,” replied Aldous, without a change in his quiet voice.  “She was splendid—­but bad.  I racked myself to find a soul for her, and I failed.  And yet she was splendid.  It was my crime—­not hers—­that she lacked a soul.  She would have been my ideal, but I spoiled her.  And by spoiling her I sold half a million copies of the book.  I did not do it purposely.  I would have given her a soul if I could have found one.  She went her way.”