“Gracious, Keith!  You are a silly.”

“I am not alone in my opinion.  It’s the opinion of some very eminent zoologists.”  He drew her gently on his knee; raised her veil and looked into her eyes.  They were (as he had often had occasion to notice) of so deep and black a black that the iris was indistinguishable from the pupil, and this blackness limited the range of their expression.  They could only tell you what Flossie was feeling, never what she was thinking; for thought requires a translucent medium, and the light of Flossie’s eyes was all on the surface.  On the other hand, the turns and movements of her body were always a sufficient indication of the attitude of her mind.  At the present moment, sitting on Keith’s knee, her pose was not one of pure complacency.  But holding her there, that little brown Beaver, his own unyielding virile body deliciously aware of the strange, incredible softness of hers, he wondered whether it were possible for him to feel anything but tender to a creature so strangely and pathetically made.  Positively she seemed to melt and grow softer by sheer contact; and presently she smiled a sweet diminutive smile that didn’t uncover more than two of her little white teeth.

“Oh, what a shame it is to treat a Beaver so!” said he.

“When are you going to take me for a nice walk?” said she.  “Any time before Christmas?”

“Perhaps.  But you mustn’t build on it.”

“I don’t see that I can build on anything at this rate.”

“I suppose a Beaver can’t be happy unless it’s always building?  That’s why some people say it hasn’t any intelligence at all.  They won’t even allow that it can build.  They think its architectural talent is all a delusion and a sham; because it builds in season and out of season.  Keep it in your study, and it will make a moat round the hearthrug with tobacco pouches and manuscripts and boots—­whatever it can lay its hands on.  It will even take the ideas out of a man’s head, if it can’t find anything better.  Is there any logic in an animal that can do that?” And if Flossie did not understand the drift of these remarks at least she seemed to understand the kisses that punctuated them.

But before very long he obtained more light on the Beaver’s logic, and owned that it was singularly sound.  They managed to put in a great many nice walks between that Sunday and Christmas.  Whenever he could spare time Rickman made a point of meeting Flossie at the end of her day’s work.  He generally waited at the corner where the long windowless wall of the Bank stretches along Prince’s Street, iron and implacable.  It was too cold now to sit under the shadow of St. Paul’s.  Sometimes they would walk home along Holborn, sometimes they would go down Ludgate Hill and thence on to the Embankment.  It was certainly better for Flossie to be out of doors than in the dingy drawing-room in Tavistock Place.  They could talk freely in the less crowded thorough-fares; and it was surprising the things they still found to say to each other all about nothing.  Every trace of Flossie’s depression had vanished; she walked with a brisk step, she chatted gaily, she laughed the happiest laughter at the poorest jokes.  All was going well; and why, oh why could he not let well alone?