“It is,” she replied.

“Which is your way home?”

Julia described her route with a brevity characteristic of her.

He slackened pace, so that she looked round at him, impatiently questioning.

“Look here, Miss Winter,” he coaxed, “don’t go home.  Stay out and dine with me.  Of course we’re mere strangers, but we’re both so emancipated, aren’t we?  No, emancipated’s an out-of-date word.  We’ve passed that, haven’t we, long ago?  We’re—­I dunno what we are; there’s no limit to us.  Isn’t it jolly?  So do come into town and dine with me.”

“I think I’d like to, thanks,” said Julia; “I’m not quite sure.”

“Why aren’t you quite sure?”

“I might be bored with you.  How do I know?”

Rokeby looked at her with an astonished respect and a glim of his saving humour.  “So you might; er—­I hadn’t thought of it; but ’pon my word, I’ll do my best.  Won’t you come if I guarantee that?”

And he wanted her to come, oddly.

“Thanks,” said Julia, “I will.”

“Queer thing,” Rokeby thought in his surprised soul, “when a girl all on her own in this hard world hesitates to come out to a good dinner with not a bad fellow in case she might be bored.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Julia calmly; “you’re thinking—­or you are almost—­that it was nearly a bit of cheek on my part.  I don’t blame you.  You’re spoilt, all of you.  The girls you take out earn their dinners and stalls too conscientiously; no matter how dull you are, they take pains to shine.  Frankly, if you take me out, you’ve got to shine.  I demand it.  And you’d be surprised at the number of invitations an exacting thing like me gets.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” said Rokeby softly, bending his head to look with a new interest at her face.  “That’s sheer cleverness, that is; that’s brilliance.  You’ve seized it.  A woman should have confidence to demand and get.”

“Women are too humble.”

“I never found them so,” Rokeby denied respectfully.

“Well, half of them are too humble, and the other half are slave-drivers.  If a girl’s got to choose one or the other, she’d better drive.”

“That’s awf’ly sound,” said Rokeby.

They neared a taxicab rank, and the first driver watched their approach with inquiring signal.  “Cab!” Rokeby sang out, and the man started his engine.

“Where are we going?” Julia asked.

“Where you like,” Desmond answered, “only let’s start there.”

He opened the door, she passed in, and he directed, “Piccadilly; and I’ll tell you just where, presently.”

He followed Julia in, and they were away, over suburban roads darker than the streets of the West.