“That is all very well,” she said reasonably, “talking about fate and big things like that. But when you take it as just behaviour you can see as well as I do that it is all wrong. Sir, there are things one can’t do, and this is one of them, and so you must please go away at once.”
“That is the one thing I can’t do,” said the young stranger desperately. “You see, although you won’t show me your face I can see the tip of your ear peeping out from your hair, and it is as red as a rose.”
Miss Wych thought: “This can’t go on. How would it be if I called a policeman?”
“It is red,” said the profile of Miss Wych, “for shame that a man can so insult his manhood.”
“Oh, I do wish people wouldn’t talk like those small leaders in The Daily Mail!” cried the voice at her shoulder. “I’m not insulting my manhood. I am living up to it for the first time in my life.”
Miss Wych said fiercely: “Go away, go away, go away!”
“Dear,” said the young stranger, “listen to me. You must listen to me. I am not playing.”
Miss Wych thought: “Our Father which art in Heaven——”
They were in the Park. How they had come to be in the Park Miss Wych could not imagine. Over Kensington Gardens the sun was marching to eternity with a cohort of clouds and colours.
“No,” said the lean young man, “I am certainly not playing. Miss Wych dear, this is not a ‘pick-up’——”