“Half for you,” said Mr. Jelnik, “and half for me, to commemorate a comradely afternoon, and to mark a decision.  We’ll consider it a token, a charm, a talisman—­what you will.  And if ever I really and truly need a Woman-in-the-Woods to help me, why, I’ll send my half to her; and she’ll obey the summons instantly and without question.  And if ever she needs a man—­like me, say—­why, she’ll send her half, and he’ll come, instantly and without question.”  He was smiling as he spoke.  Now he paused to look at me earnestly.  “Because we are going to be real friends, you and I; are we not?”

I hesitated.  How could we two be real friends, when the balance between us was so uneven, so unequal?  He saw the hesitation, momentary as it was, and looked at me with something of astonishment and a hint of hurt.

“I have never,” he said, proudly, “had to ask for friendship.  Yet I do desire yours, who are such a grave, brave, true little thing, such a valiant-for-truth, stand-fast little thing!  You have the one quality that I, born wanderer, foot-loose rolling-stone, need most in this world, unchanging, loyal, unquestioning steadfastness.”

I considered this.  It is true that I hold fast, for that is the English way.

“But outside of that one thing,” I told him, “I have nothing else.”

“No?—­She hasn’t,” said he, in a teasing tone, “anything to give, except unbuyable truth.  She has nothing to offer except Friendship’s very self!—­this poor, poor Miss Smith!”

Now, heaven alone knows why, but at that my eyes filled with foolish tears.  If he saw them—­and they ran down my cheek in spite of me—­he mercifully gave no sign.  Instead he held out his fine brown hand, and when I placed mine in it, he lifted it to his lips with foreign grace.

“We two are friends, then—­through thick and thin, above doubting, and without fear or reproach.  That is so, hein?”

“Yes!” I promised.

So, walking slowly, as if loath to go, we two went out of the Enchanted Wood and left the Forest of Arden behind us.

When I was again in my own room, and had taken off the brown frock, I held against my cheek, for a long, long minute, that fold against which his head had rested; I fingered the broken coin; I looked long and long at the hand his lips had touched; and though I had told a shameless lie, I was not at all ashamed.

I have often read that women do not and cannot love men, but only love to be loved by them.  Only a man could have been stupid enough to say that; and, then he didn’t know.  The woman hadn’t told him.

“I say!  Haven’t you got on a new frock to-night?  My word, it’s scrumptious!” remarked The Author, after dinner.  I was wearing a black-and-blue frock, and he had seen it before, as I explained with some surprise.

He adjusted his glasses, frowned, and shook his head.

“I am becoming unobservant,” he said crossly.  “This place is playing the very deuce with my mental processes!  But stay:  surely your hair is arranged differently?  It wasn’t brought over your ears like that, the first time I saw you, I know it wasn’t!”