"You—you know I could—could throw you over the wall with one hand," he stammered.

   "Perhaps, but you wouldn't."

   "Why not?'

   "Because you're a gentleman."

   "Oh, am I?"

   "Yes. Or if you aren't you ought to be."

   He frowned at that, a little puzzled.

   "Where do you come from?" he asked.

   "I can't see how that can possibly be any business of yours."

   "H-m. How did you get in here?"

   "I followed my nose. How did you?"

   "I—I—I belong here."

   "It's an asylum, isn't it?" she asked quite coolly.

   "N—no." Jerry missed the irony. "Not at all. I live here. It's my place. You—you're the first woman that ever got in here, and I can't imagine how you did it. I—I don't want to be impolite, but I'm afraid you'll have to go at once."

   The sound of her laughter was most disconcerting. Jerry had no lack of a sense of humor and yet there was nothing that he could see to laugh at.

   "That's very amusing," she said. "A moment ago you were going to throw me over the wall and now you're afraid you're impolite."

   Jerry found himself smiling in spite of himself.

   "I—I don't suppose I really meant that," he muttered.

   "What? Throwing me over the wall or being polite?"

   He looked rather bewildered, I think, at the inanity of her conversation. Jerry wasn't much given to small talk.

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