“Not a bit; they’re as artless as you.  My dear little Mavis, one ’ud think you’d never left the nursery.”

“But I have.”

“Curse it, you have!  Why did you?  Oh! why did you?”

“Do as I’ve done?”

“Yes.  Why did you?”

“I loved him.”

“Eh?”

“The only possible reason—­I loved him.”

“And if you’d loved me, you’d have done the same for me?”

“If you’d asked me.”

“For me?  For me?”

“If I loved you, and if you asked me.”

“But that’s just it.  If a chap truly loves a girl, he’d rather die than injure a hair of her head.  And if you loved me, my one idea would be to protect my darling little Mavis from all harm.  Why—–­”

He stopped.  Mavis’s face was drawn as if she were in great pain.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“How dare you?  Oh, how dare you?”

“Dare I what?” he asked, much perplexed at her sudden anger.

“Insult the man I love.  If what you say is true, it would mean he didn’t truly love me.  You lie!  I tell you he does!  You lie—­you lie!”

“You’re right,” assented Windebank sadly, after a moment’s thought.  “You’re quite right.  I made a mistake.  I ask everyone’s pardon.  How could any man fail to appreciate you?”

Much to his surprise, her anger soon abated.  A not too convincing light-heartedness took the place of this stormy ebullition.  If Windebank had been more skilled in the mechanism of a woman’s heart, he would have promptly divined the girl’s gaiety had been wilfully assumed, in order to conceal from herself the anxiety that Windebank’s words, with reference to the proper conduct of a true lover, had inspired.  By the time they had reached her door, she had expended her fund of forced gaiety; she was again the subdued Mavis whom trouble had fashioned.  She thanked Windebank many times for his kindness; although she was tired, she was in no mood to leave him.  She liked the restfulness that she discovered in his company; also, she dreaded to-night the society of her own thoughts.

They were now standing in the street immediately outside the door of her lodging.  They had been silent for some moments.  Mavis regretfully realised that he must soon leave her.

“Will you do me a favour?” he asked suddenly.

She looked up inquiringly.

“May I see—–?” he continued softly.  “May I see—–?”

“My boy?” she asked, divining his wish.

She thought for a moment before slipping into the house.  A little later, she came out carrying the sleeping baby in her arms.  Mavis’s heart inclined to Windebank for his request; at the same time, she knew well that, were she a man, and in his present situation, she would not be the least interested in the loved woman’s child, whose father was a successful rival.

Windebank uncovered the little one’s face.  He looked at it intently for a while.  He then bent down to kiss the baby’s forehead.