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right away, and somehow he did not make her angry now at all. They talked about the people they passed; they discussed one or two books and places both had seen, and for the first time since she left England that vague, cold feeling round her heart melted, and she felt gay and irresponsible again. Tony’s thoughts, though he laughed with her, and told her one or two amusing adventures, still hovered persistently round the topic which concerned them both. He did not like to speak of Trent Stoke again, but presently, as Pamela looked up at him for confirmation of some remark, she saw it in his eyes, and began to fend it off in her own way.

“It is very good to—learn to be independent,” she said, in a voice that only shook a little.

“Very,” agreed Tony, his eyes on the grey, unfriendly-looking sky.

“And,” she continued, “you find out which people are really nice, and which—aren’t.”

Tony shot a quick side-glance at her and whistled mentally.

“That sounds like men,” he thought. “Already? . . .”

“Yes, it does teach you a lot,” he said aloud. “May I give you some advice? About getting on alone, I mean. I’ve been on my own ever since I was ten. It’s just this. You’ve got to learn to obey, of course, and that isn’t easy. But don’t let yourself be trampled on, or you’ll come not to mind it in the end, and that is—vile. You’ll often get more hurt through making a fight than you would by lying down under it, but it’s worth it, because of your self-respect.”

“Yes,” said Pamela soberly. She did not like any sort of fight, but no doubt this was very necessary.

“Poor child,” thought Tony. “It must hurt to have to begin fighting when you’ve never done any, when you’re—How old are you, Pamela?” he asked aloud. “I beg