sex, little Jane drew herself up proudly and threw back insolent glances of triumph.  “You would like to be where I am, wouldn’t you?” the glance would say, with the words almost formulated in her mind.  “But you won’t.  You never will be.  I’ve got him.  He’s walking out with me and not with you.  I like to see you squirm, you envious little cat.”  Jane was not a princess, she was merely a child of the people; but I am willing to eat my boots if it can be satisfactorily proved that there is a princess living on the face of the earth who would not be delighted at seeing another woman cast covetous eyes on the man she loved, and would not call her a cat (or its homonym) for doing so.

On this mild March afternoon Paul and Jane walked in the Euston Road, he in a loose blue serge suit, floppy black tie, low collar and black soft felt hat (this was in the last century, please remember—­epoch almost romantic, so fast does time fly), she in neat black braided jacket and sailor hat.  They looked pathetically young.

“Where shall we go?” asked Jane.

Paul, in no mood for high adventure, suggested Regent’s Park.  “At least we can breathe there,” said he.

Jane sniffed up the fresh spring air, unconscious of the London taint, and laughed.  “Why, what’s the matter with the Euston Road?”

“It’s vulgar,” said Paul.  “In the Park the hyacinths and the daffodils will be out.”

What he meant he scarcely knew.  When one is very young and out of tune with life, one is apt to speak discordantly.

They mounted a westward omnibus.  Paul lit a cigarette and smoked almost in silence until they alighted by the Park gates.  As they entered, he turned to her suddenly.  “Look here, Jane, I want to ask you something.  The other night I told a man I was an artist’s model, and he said ‘How beastly!’ and turned away as if I wasn’t fit for him to associate with.  What was he driving at?”

“He was a nasty cad,” said Jane promptly.

“Of course he was,” said Paul.  “But why did he say it?  Do you think there’s anything beastly in being a model?”

“Certainly not.”  She added in modification:  “That is if you like it.”

“Well, supposing I don’t like it?”

She did not reply for a minute or two.  Then:  “If you really don’t like it, I should be rather glad.”

“Why?” asked Paul.

She raised a piteous face.

“Yes, tell me,” he insisted.  “Tell me why you agree with that cad Higgins?”

“I don’t agree with him.”

“You must.”

They fenced for a while.  At last he pinned her down.

“Well, if you want to know,” she declared, with a flushed cheek, “I don’t think it’s a man’s job.”

He bit his lip.  He had asked for the truth and he had got it.  His own dark suspicions were confirmed.  Jane glanced at him fearful of offence.  When they had walked some yards he spoke.  “What would you call a man’s job?”