"Yes, I've no doubt there are," he said.

   "And thrilling little adventures—no?" she questioned.

   "For the bold, I dare say."

   "None but the bold deserve them. Sometimes it's one thing, and sometimes it's another."

   "That's very certain," he agreed.

   "Sometimes, for instance," she went on, "one meets a man one knows, and speaks to him. And he answers with a glibness! And then, almost directly, what do you suppose one discovers?"

   "What?" he asked.

   "One discovers that the wretch hasn't a ghost of a notion who one is—that he's totally and absolutely forgotten one!"

   "Oh, I say! Really?" he exclaimed.

   "Yes, really. You can't deny that

    that's

   an exhilarating little adventure."

   "I should think it might be. One could enjoy the man's embarrassment," he reflected.

   "Or his lack of embarrassment. Some men are of an assurance, of a

    sang froid

   ! They'll place themselves beside you, and walk with you, and talk with you, and even propose that you should pass the livelong afternoon cracking jokes with them in a garden, and never breathe a hint of their perplexity. They'll brazen it out."

   "That's distinctly heroic, Spartan, of them, don't you think?" he said. "Intentionally, poor dears, they're very likely suffering agonies of discomfiture."

   "We'll hope they are. Could they decently do less?" said she.

   "And fancy the mental struggles that must be going on in their brains," he 

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