“Should have thought we made enough noise coming in.  But I suppose what you’re driving at is that she only comes when you’re alone; is that it?” asked Killigrew wickedly.

“Damn it all! you know it’s not what I mean at all, only you twist everything a fellow says so.  Anyway, I’d hate anyone to go and make a mistake about her.”

“I won’t,” said Killigrew.

“It wouldn’t be possible, I think,” said Ishmael; “she’s got that sort of clear look, you couldn’t.”

“Yes, that’s just it,” agreed Carminow gratefully.  “Sometimes she even does things that might seem a little odd or rash, and it’s all because she is such a child of nature she doesn’t understand.  A sort of Miwanda.”

“What is her name, by the way?” asked Killigrew idly.

“Blanche, I believe.”

“Blanche Grey ... a rather humorous combination.  Well, we must go or we shall be keeping you from your beastly legalised murder at eight.  Come on, Ishmael!”

“I’ll come up to the Strand with you,” said Carminow.  “I have to be early at the prison, or one doesn’t get through the crowd, not with a single valuable left on you anyway, and lucky to keep your shirt and trousers.  You’re sure you won’t come?  I could manage something for you.”

Neither felt disposed—­Ishmael not only because he knew it would make him deadly sick, but because the mere though of it had somehow become horrible, and Killigrew because he was rather glad to make Ishmael an excuse for not going himself.  They all strode along the dim, quiet street, empty except for a dweller of the night who slunk into deeper shadows on seeing that there were three of them.

“She’s an interesting-looking girl, that Miss Grey,” observed Killigrew, more to try and draw Carminow than because he was really interested in the subject himself.

“She reminded me of someone, and at first I couldn’t think who,” said Ishmael, feeling a queer little pleasure at talking of her thus casually; “and then I remembered Hilaria—­you remember little Hilaria Eliot, who used to be so jolly to us all at St. Renny?”

“She is the last person I should have compared with Miss Grey,” said Killigrew decidedly.  “I should say they were as different as it is possible for two persons of the same sex to be.  Hilaria was like a boy; Miss Grey is most feminine.”

“Yes, she is,” said Ishmael eagerly; “but there’s the same frankness, that way of meeting you that other girls don’t have.”

“I know what you mean,” agreed Carminow, “though I don’t think one notices it when one sees more of Miss Grey.  As Killigrew says, she is so essentially feminine—­she is always gwateful for support in a way that is really very sad in one who has to battle with the world.  It is a hard life for a refined gentlewoman, I fear.”

“Dear old chap, with his ‘battling with the world’ and all the rest of his really highly moral conventional views!” exclaimed Killigrew.  “He’s a fraud, isn’t he, Ishmael, who pretends to love to wallow in blug just to hide his lamblike disposition.”