They had reached the corner. Joan could see her bus in the distance. “I am only at the end of a journey when you need me,” he had answered, and they had kissed. And next morning she returned to her own life.!

“No. Not since about a month,” she answered. “Why?” He was looking at her with those shy, worshipping eyes of his that always made her marvel at her own wonderfulness.

One evening it struck him that the milk-pail, standing just inside the window, had been tampered with. Next day he marked with a scratch the inside of the pan and, returning later, found the level of the milk had sunk half an inch. So he hid himself and waited; and at twilight the next day the window was stealthily pushed open, and two small, terror-haunted eyes peered round the room. They satisfied themselves that no one was about and a tiny hand clutching a cracked jug was thrust swiftly in and dipped into the pan; and the window softly closed. She walked up the Rue des Sts. Pères, enjoying the delicious air. Half way across the bridge she overtook a man, strolling listlessly in front of her. There was something familiar about him. He was wearing a grey suit and had his hands in his pockets. Suddenly the truth flashed upon her. She stopped. If he strolled on, she would be able to slip back. Instead of which he abruptly turned to look down at a passing steamer, and they were face to face. “Has Mam’selle ever seen a bull fight?” he asked her.