They were strolling about the quiet spaces of the Temple Courts.
It was a pleasant afternoon in February, the new grass was pushing up.

They could be quite occupied with one another--they had the place almost to themselves.
Elfrida's well-fitting shabby little jacket hung unbuttoned, and she swung Cardiff's light walking-stick as they sauntered.

He, with his eyes on her delicately flushed face and his hands unprofessorially in his pockets, was counting the minutes that were left them.
"You wouldn't have, would you ?" she insisted.
"I would think any womanly fault you like of you," he laughed, "but one--the fear to confess it." Elfrida shut her lips with a little proud smile.

"Do you know," she said confidingly, "when you say things like that to me I like you very much--but _very much!_" "But not enough," he answered her quickly, "never enough, Frida ?" The girl's expression changed.

"You are not to call me 'Frida,'" she said, frowning a little.