Then they both laughed, and the beggar, not without reluctance, climbed down from the platform.  Swift and easy as were his motions, he appeared to terrible disadvantage, and he knew it.  So did Barbara, who a moment before had been on the point of really liking him.  She steeled herself against the sudden disgust which she could not help feeling, and smiled at him in a steady, friendly way.

“To-morrow?” she said.

“To-morrow.”

“At the same time, please.  Good-by, and good luck to you.”

“Good luck to you, Miss Ferris.”  And he was gone.

Barbara, opening the door into the next room, surprised a sound of voices.  They ceased instantly.

“Bubbles,” she called.

He came, looking a trifle guilty.

“Who’s that with you?”

“Harry,” he said simply.

“The man who was here before?”

“Yes, Miss Barbara.”

“What’s he doing in my rooms?”

“He was just sitting, and chinning,” said Bubbles.

Miss Ferris was displeased.  “Tell him,” she said, “that I can’t have my apartment turned into a Young Men’s Club.”

“Yes, miss.”

Bubbles retired, reluctantly, with the message, only to return in a moment.

“He says will you let him speak to you a moment, please.”

She hesitated.  And then, “Yes,” she said.  “I suppose he wishes to apologize.”

He was even more charming-looking than the memory of him.  She made an effort to look a little displeased, and a little unfriendly.  She failed, because the May-weather message had gotten into her blood, and because certain forces of which as yet she knew little had established connecting links between herself and the young secret-service agent.

“I am going to scold you,” said Barbara.  “Bubbles has his work to do.”

“But I was helping him with it.”

“He said you were just sitting and—­and chinning.”

“When we had finished working.”

“Have you been here long?”

The young man looked her steadily in the face, and said gravely:  “Ever since Blizzard came.”

Barbara lifted her chin a little.  “I am quite able to take care of myself,” she said.

He shook his head sadly.

“Do you make it your business”—­she had succeeded in making herself angry—­“to keep an eye on all young women whom you fancy unable to take care of themselves?”

“I only wish to God I could,” he said earnestly.  “But of course it’s impossible.  So I just do the best I can.”

“And why have you chosen me?  Surely others are even more helpless than I am.”  She managed to convey a good deal of scorn.  “Why,” she continued, “must I be the particular creature singled out for your chivalrous notice?”

“I don’t know,” he said simply.

All the anger went out of Barbara, and a delicious little thrill passed through her from head to foot, leaving in its wake a clear rosy coloring.