“Mr. Verrian!”

“Miss Shirley!”

The stress of their voices fell upon different parts of the sentences they uttered, but did not commit either of them to a special role.

“How very strange we should meet here!” she said, with pleasure in her voice.  “Do you know, I have been wanting to come all winter to see this man, on account of his name?  And to think that I should meet the other Mr. Verrian as soon as I yielded to the temptation.”

“I have just yielded myself,” Verrian said.  “I hope you don’t feel punished for yielding.”

“Oh, dear, no!  It seems a reward.”

She did not say why it seemed so, and he suggested, “The privilege of comparing the histrionic and the literary Verrian?”

“Could there be any comparison?” she came back, gayly.

“I don’t know.  I haven’t seen the histrionic Verrian yet.”

They were laughing when the curtain rose, and the histrionic Verrian had his innings for a long, long first act.  When the curtain fell she turned to the literary Verrian and said, “Well?”

“He lasted a good while,” Verrian returned.

“Yes.  Didn’t he?” She looked at the little watch in her wristlet.  “A whole hour!  Do you know, Mr. Verrian, I am going to seem very rude.  I am going to leave you to settle this question of superiority; I know you’ll be impartial.  I have an appointment—­with the dressmaker, to be specific—­at half-past four, and it’s half-past three now, and I couldn’t well leave in the middle of the next act.  So I will say good-bye now—­”

“Don’t!” he entreated.  “I couldn’t bear to be left alone with this dreadful double of mine.  Let me go out with you.”

“Can I accept such self-sacrifice?  Well!”

She had put on her hat and risen, and he now stepped out of his place to let her pass and then followed her.  At the street entrance he suggested, “A hansom, or a simple trolley?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured, meditatively, looking up the street as if that would settle it.  “If it’s only half-past three now, I should have time to get home more naturally.”

“Oh!  And will you let me walk with you?”

“Why, if you’re going that way.”

“I will say when I know which way it is.”

They started on their walk so blithely that they did not sadden in the retrospect of their joint experiences at Mrs. Westangle’s.  By the time they reached the park gate at Columbus Circle they had come so distinctly to the end of their retrospect that she made an offer of letting him leave her, a very tacit offer, but unmistakable, if he chose to take it.  He interpreted her hesitation as he chose.  “No,” he said, “it won’t be any longer if we go up through the park.”

She drew in her breath softly, smoothing down her muff with her right hand while she kept her left in it.  “And it will certainly be pleasanter.”  When they were well up the path, in that part of it where it deflects from the drive without approaching the street too closely, and achieves something of seclusion, she said: