“That generally signifies something rather piquant, you know,” said Jimmy in his equable way.  “Just think of the things and the people we do respect—­in your delightful sense.  If we could only see through their skins; though of course they’re far too thick.  Anyhow, if you won’t go now, you will later on, and meantime,” he added, “you throw me on my own resources.”

The consequence of Sybil’s refusal was that Jimmy passed the end of Golfney Place several times a day and presently met with a reward.  It was about half-past eleven one sunny morning that he saw Bridget come forth from her door, and without a glance in his direction, turn towards the further end of the street.  Quickening his pace, he at once set out in pursuit.  Walking behind her, he saw the light on her chestnut-coloured hair, saw that she knew (rare accomplishment) how to walk, and a few moments later, still a foot or two in the rear, he exclaimed—­

“Good-morning, Miss Rosser.”

“Oh, good-morning, Mr. Clynesworth,” she answered, without stopping.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To my dressmaker’s in Dover Street!”

“May I go with you——­”

“That sounds,” cried Bridget gaily, “like the beginning of a nursery rhyme.”

“There never was a prettier maid,” he answered, walking by her side.

“I suppose you know a great many,” she suggested.

“They are all cast into oblivion——­”

“Is it your experience,” said Bridget, turning to look into his face, “that they appreciate this—­this sort of thing?”

“Don’t you?” asked Jimmy.

“I rather prefer being spoken to as if I were a reasonable being!”

“I was hoping you were not one,” he said.  “The spring is too intoxicating.  Everything,” he continued, as they turned with one consent from Knightsbridge into the park, “seems unaccustomed, fresh, young, and you the most of all.  Hang being reasonable!  Suggest something mad and let us do it together.  But,” he cried, abruptly changing his tone, “what should you like me to talk about?”

“I suppose your favourite topic is yourself,” she said.  “Tell me what you do—­if ever you do anything.”

“I don’t,” he replied.  “I am what is called a spoilt child of fortune.”

“You like being spoilt?”

“It depends on the spoiler.  Sometimes I hate it.”

“Why?” asked Bridget.

“Oh well,” he said, as they walked by the side of Rotten Row, and Jimmy occasionally lifted his straw hat to some passer-by who did not fail to stare at his companion, “if we have to be serious, one has moments of inspiration and pines for better things.”

“Aren’t they within your reach?”

“Your most ardent socialist,” said Jimmy, “won’t dream of pooling his money till the millennium.  What would be the use of my setting to work and cutting out some poor devil who wants it?”