"Well, you can give me the place you did live. I'll write you there, Lorna. You didn't ask me my name when I asked you yours. You've hardly said anything. Are you always quiet like this?"
"No—not always. At Least, I haven't been."
"No. You weren't, part of the time this afternoon—at the restaurant. Tell me, what are you thinking about all the time? You're very secretive. Why don't you tell me? Don't you know I like you?"
"I don't know," said the girl in a slow dazed way. "I—don't—know."
"I wouldn't take your time for nothing," he went on, after a pause. "My father doesn't give me much money, but I think I'll have some more day after tomorrow. Can I see you then?"
"I don't know."
He laughed. "You said that before. Day after tomorrow afternoon—in the same place. No matter if it's raining. I'll be there first—at three. Will you come?"
"If I can."
She made a movement to go. But still he detained her. He colored high again, in the struggle between the impulses of his generous youth and the fear of being absurd with a girl he had picked up in the street. He looked at her searchingly, wistfully. "I know it's your life, but—I hate to think of it," he went on. "You're far too nice. I don't see how you happened to be in—in this line. Still, what else is there for a girl, when she's up against it? I've often thought of those things—and I don't feel about them as most people do. . . . I'm curious about you. You'll pardon me, won't you? I'm afraid I'll fall in love with you, if I see you often. You won't fail to come day after tomorrow?"
"If I can."