her pretty head drooping slightly under the curve of her white neck. Kit replaced his cup on the table, and seized the chance of a steady look at her, and while he was looking her eyes swept swiftly to his. She smiled. He answered her smile.
"Go to the theatre often?"
"No, not very often. Can't afford the time or the money."
"Oh, you are one of the keen ones," she said wisely, as though she already knew a great deal about him, and meant to know more; "one sees a lot of life at the theatre, on the stage—I mean. Makes you think. And then—when you begin thinking"
Her intelligent smile gave a lustre to her sensuous, flower-like face.
"You get out of your depth," said Kit.
She considered his assertion.
"That depends. Seems to me—when we get to the bottom of things—we all do what we want to do if we can. And where's the harm? And especially—if you don't wallow. It's the people who wallow, and those who are all tied up. Seems—we are more natural since the war. We—are."
"Whom do you mean by we?"
"We younger ones. We are ready to question things, to go on our own,—women especially. Some of you men are such dear old sentimentalists."
She laughed.
"That's that.—Where do you live—in digs?"
"Yes."
"Bit lonely—sometimes?"
He avoided her eyes,—but presently he had to look at her.
"O, yes, damnably so. But I work hard. And then—the glitter gets you, and you want to go mad. Silly, isn't it?"
"Not a bit."
Her glance was soft.
"Why shouldn't you? It's natural. It's the old stuffy people who were always crying stale fish!—I say,—what's your name?"
"Sorrell."
"That's pretty. But the other one."
"Christopher—or Kit."
