Drains and my father? They have some plan. . . . I am to do whatever I please, but constantly they are suggesting. . . .
But, Harold, as you have your father's word that you can do what you like, why don't you take advantage of it?
What I like is impossible. Campaspe, I must tell you! I must tell some one! Then, incoherently, he poured out the story of his meeting with Alice, and what had happened subsequently, but he refrained from mentioning her name.
Campaspe listened, enraptured, masking her too eager interest behind the smoke of her cigarette. It seemed too impossibly romantic to be real. It had happened, however. Of that the boy's manner left no loophole for doubt. When he had concluded his narrative, she paused for a moment before she said:
Obviously, the thing to do is to find some one who knows the girl, and who will introduce you properly.
But who? he asked desperately. Who? Whom do I know that would know people like that, conventional, respectable people? He flushed. I beg your pardon. I . . .
Enjoying his discomfiture, she was at the same time amused by his point of view.
I understand, she said, but perhaps you don't. It is barely possible, she began and then broke off. Presently, looking at him intently and sympathetic-
