"I do not know you," said Elizabeth. "Of that I am sure."
"But, dear—the songs—the little verses—"
"She does not know you," said the chaperone. "You must not.... You have made a mistake. You must not go on talking to us after that. You must not annoy us on the public ways."
"But—" said Denton, and for a moment his miserably haggard face appealed against fate.
"You must not persist, young man," protested the chaperone.
Her face was the face of one who is tormented. "I do not know you," she cried, hand to brow. "Oh, I do not know you!"
For an instant Denton sat stunned. Then he stood up and groaned aloud.
He made a strange gesture of appeal towards the remote glass roof of the public way, then turned and went plunging recklessly from one moving platform to another, and vanished amidst the swarms of people going to and fro thereon. The chaperone's eyes followed him, and then she looked at the curious faces about her.
"Dear," asked Elizabeth, clasping her hand, and too deeply moved to heed observation, "who was that man? Who was that man?"