"He is an omnibus driver." 

 "A relative?" 

 "Better than that—a friend. I s'pose you're somewhat particular about relations?" 

 The conductor came, and the girl had thought of other questions by the time fares to the Adelaide were paid. A man on the seat in front turned to ask her companion for a match; he handed over a silver box that bore a monogram. She begged permission, when it was given back, to look at the case. 

 "Which stands for the Christian name?" 

 "The H." 

 "And D. is for the surname then—H. D." 

 "Henry Douglass," he said. 

 "I like the sound of it," she declared.  "What do you think the name of the forewoman at our place of business is?"  She chattered on, and he listened attentively, as though the sound of her voice was all that mattered. 

 At the Adelaide they alighted, and, walking up the short hill, found Regent's Park Road; she explained the geography of the district, pointed out that away south it was all open country until you came to Marylebone Road. And was it not wonderful how fresh and bracing the air seemed up here, even on a summer's evening; you could easily imagine yourself miles and miles away from London. Did he care for the country? She did not. For one thing, the people there had such an odd way of speaking that it was a trouble to realize what they were driving at. She sometimes wondered whether they understood each other. 

 "You're letting me do all the talk," she remarked, as they took seats in the enclosed space at the top of the hill. Boys were playing on the slopes, punctuating the game with frequent disputes. A young couple seated near a tree attracted her notice; the girl's eyes were closed, head resting on the shoulder of the young man, who had an aspect of gloomy resignation. 

 "Sillies some people make of themselves, don't they?" she said. 

 "I suppose we are, most of us, ludicrous to other people." 

 "Do you laugh at me sometimes?" 

 "No, no," he said earnestly; "I like you too much to do that." 

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