"I am called Lionel Mortimer."
"I am called Beatrice Blair. Lionel ..." she went on with a reflective sweetness, and he started as if stung. Her hand restrained while it aroused him. "No: you must not mind that. I call you Lionel because"—she turned aside as if struggling with her feelings—"I am a mother. My little boy is called—was called Lionel."
"I am sorry," he said sincerely. "Go on."
"You must think hardly of me." He shook his head. "Yes, you must—it is only natural. But I should like you to know the reason why I asked you to——"
By this time Lionel was in a very good humor with himself. Warned by his recent heroism and virtue, flattered by the interest shown in him by this delightful creature, he was prepared for anything.
"I never ask a woman for a reason," he said, smiling. "I have the most complete faith."
"How old are you?" she asked; and when he answered "Twenty-seven," she laughed.
They drove in silence for a space; presently she asked what time it was. He put his hand to his pocket and then withdrew it. She had observed the action—"Your pocket has been picked?"
"No," he said frankly. "As a matter of fact, I pawned my watch a week ago."
"Then you are poor!" she cried impulsively. "Oh! I beg your pardon,—I did not mean——"