“All boys are fools—men too, for that matter. Come along if you’re coming.”
“But I’m not,” said Wynne.
“Why not?”
“I made a mistake.”
“A mistake, eh? You’re a cheeky little devil. Who are you to speak to a girl? I should like to ask?”
“I didn’t recognize you, that’s all. I’ve never met you before. Another time I shall know. Good-night.”
He turned quickly and walked away.
“Silly little kid!” murmured the girl, and fell into her roving pace once more.
“I wish I had told her how rotten I thought she was,” mused Wynne, as he pulled off his boots before getting to bed. “I might have gone home with her!” He tried to picture such a happening, but it brought nothing to his imagination. There was not the slightest tremble of passion to weigh against his satisfaction at having avoided the offered temptation.
“Fools men must be to yield to that sort. I never should. I think I got out of it all right after the first mistake. Original sin!” He fell to quoting Swinburne, a poet who had pleased his ear alone.