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She was listening and observing with almost excited interest. “Didn’t you ever meet that Syrian girl again?” inquired she.

He laughed carelessly, shrugged his shoulders. “Yes—unfortunately.”

The girl’s face became shadowed. “You loved her?”

His frank, boyish eyes twinkled good-humored mockery at her earnestness. “As you see, I survived,” said he.

She frowned at him. “You’re very disappointing,” said she. “You’re not a bit romantic—are you?”

“I save it all for my painting.”

She laughingly put out her hand. They shook hands; he accompanied her to the door. She said: “I’d like to have a name to remember you by.” And she looked at him with candid and friendly admiration for his handsome bigness. “Not your real name. That wouldn’t be a bit romantic—and, as you see, I’m crazy about romance.” She sighed. “Probably because I never get any. Don’t laugh at me. You can’t understand my taste for candy, because with you—it’s been like keeping a confectionery shop.”

“Yes—that’s true,” said he, looking at her with a new and more personal friendliness of sympathy.