“It’s a novel.  And in it a great, good giant of a young man devotes himself to rescuing a maiden named Lygia. His name was Ursus, and he was so strong he could bring a bull to its knees—–­”

“Why, you silly little kid, that’s a movie, not a novel.  I’ve seen Ursus and his bull, all right.  You’re makin’ me stuck on myself.  I feel as if I was it.”

“Well, you are it.  I christen you Ursus.  And thank you very much for taking so much trouble about me.”

“I didn’t take trouble,” protested Ursus, half afraid that he was being “kidded.”  “All I did was to beat it after you at what the swell reporters call a respectful distance just to see you safe home if you meant to hoof it.  When you shot into the park, thinks I, ’maybe she’s made a date to chat with a gentleman friend, so I’ll hang back.’  But—–­”

“It was quite an accident, meeting Mr. Logan, I assure you, Ursus,” said Win, still unwilling to confide in him the details of the late encounter, which seemed ridiculous now it was over.  “I wanted a breath of air.  I’ve had it, and if you’ll be very good and never use such a word again as you did night before last, you may walk home with me if you like.”

“What word do you refer to?  Cutie?”

“Yes.  And another still more offensive.”

“Sweetie?”

“Yes.  Disgusting!  ‘Kid’s’ bad enough.  But I thought you mightn’t know any better.  I draw the line at the others.”

“All right,” said Ursus rather sulkily, sure that he was being made fun of now.  “But when a chap’s a girl’s friend what is he to call her?”

“‘You’ will do very well, if ‘Miss Child’ is beyond your vocabulary.”

“I don’t call that bein’ friends.  Say, is that your mutt’s automobile sort of following along in our wake?”

“I don’t know, for I don’t want to look back,” said Win. (They were out of the park by this time.) “But—­I’ve changed my mind about walking all the way.  Let’s hurry and take a Fifty-Ninth Street car!”

* * * * *

By day, in the shop, Win could laugh when she thought of the Columbus Avenue house where she and Sadie “hung out.”  But at night, in her room, trying desperately to sleep, she could not even smile.  To do so, with all those noises fraying the edges of her brain, would be to gibber!

In that neighbourhood front rooms were cheaper than rooms at the back.  Lodgers who could afford to do so paid extra money for a little extra tranquillity.  Neither Sadie Kirk nor Winifred Child was of these aristocrats.  Their landlady had thriftily hired two cheap flats in a fair-sized house whose ground floor was occupied by a bakery, and whose fire-escapes gave it the look of a big body wearing its skeleton outside.  She “rented” her rooms separately, and made money on the transaction, though she could afford to take low prices.