But Roger showed no disposition to respond to her coquetry. He said in matter-of-fact tones: “Do you live far? Hadn’t I better take you home?”
“No, no!” she cried. “We mustn’t spoil it.”
“Spoil what?”
“The romance,” laughed she.
He looked amused, like a much older person at a child’s whimsicalities. “Oh, I see! Once I was in a train in the Alps bound for Paris, and it halted beside a train bound for Constantinople. My window happened to be opposite that of a girl from Syria. We talked for half an hour. Then—we shook hands as the trains drew away from each other. This is to be like that? A good idea.”
She was listening and observing with almost excited interest. “Didn’t you ever meet that Syrian girl again?” inquired she.
He laughed carelessly, shrugged his shoulders. “Yes—unfortunately.”
The girl’s face became shadowed. “You loved her?”
His frank, boyish eyes twinkled good-humored mockery at her earnestness. “As you see, I survived,” said he.
She frowned at him. “You’re very disappointing,” said she. “You’re not a bit romantic—are you?”