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“To be perfectly frank, I have read only one of your stories and have only the haziest recollection of the plot. Something about a girl who fell off the pillion saddle of a motor-cycle and was picked up by a real hero in a sports roadster. There were roses and several cups of afternoon-tea in it, too.”

“And is it because of that early effort of mine that you look down on me?”

“I do not look down on you.”

“You certainly do not look up at me.”

“Conceit! I have yet to meet a man worth looking up at—or to. I look at you with level gaze, James Harley, and I think I see you better than you see yourself.”

“But you don’t think much of me?”

“Don’t I?”

There had been something in her non-committal question, some nuance in her tones, which had caused Harley’s heart to skip a beat. He had looked sharply at her, but the darkness had hidden the expression in her eyes.

He had been silent until they reached the tram-stop and the tram was slowing to a halt.

“When shall we see you again?’ he had asked then.

“When I am invited?”

“We keep open house to you.”

“Thanks. Shall we say Wednesday week?”

“That’s a very distant date.”

“It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid. Good-night.”

She had smiled and waved to him as the tram moved off. It was the first time she had done so, and he had walked home with a smile on his lips—the smile of a conqueror.

“Pat catch the tram all right?” Grace had asked as soon as he had closed the front door on his return.

“Yes,” he had answered shortly.

“What do you two find to talk about on these moonlight walks?”