air.
Carney sat forward with a rapt face lit by the glare in which those fantastic creatures moved, clenching his fists when the villain became outrageous, shaking his head when the heroine failed to see how outrageous the fellow was. Miss Jardine smiled. She felt like a maiden aunt who has taken a small boy to the matinee. Once, when the simpering she-ghost got into a predicament that she thoroughly deserved, Carney put out a hand and seized Miss Jardineâs wrist with such force that she barely suppressed a cry. But she did not move. Her wrist lay passive in his grasp until, in the same unconscious way, he let it go.
When they emerged into the clean air of the August evening Carney drew in a great breath and blew it out through his bearded lips.
âThatâs better,â he announced with satisfaction.
âBut I thought you liked the show?â
âOh, I did. I didnât like that dark chap, though. By Jingo, I could have knocked his head off. I donât understand why the other chap didnât, there in the first reel. He could see what the fellow was.â
âSo could the girl, if she had any sense.â
âI thought she was rather nice.â
âI thought she was an idiot.â
He turned and looked at Miss Jardine in surprise.
âBut you couldnât expect a girl like that to know anything about a fellow of his sort!â
âI could and I did. Even nice girls are supposed to have some common sense. And he was so obvious. He fairly dripped nastiness. Of course, lifeâs not like that anyhow. The man who looks like a hero usually turns out to be the villain sooner or later; and the really nice man might be anybody, likeâ¦â She was going to say âyouâ but she checked the word on her tongue. She did not mean quite that. Carney was nice, of course, but not in the romantic sense. You looked upon him as you might have regarded a good-natured uncle when you were small and the world seemed full of huge man-creatures, stern, indifferent, and all as old as the hills.
âLike what?â Carney demanded.
âI canât think of the right word. Anyhow, nice men seldom have a cameo profile and I hope they have a lot more sense than our hero. It isnât any good striking attitudes when the ladyâs making a fool of herself. Frankly I donât think she was worth bothering about, but a good shake right at the start might have helped. What she really wanted was an old-fashioned smacking, country-style.â
Carney chaffed, âYouâre still pretty much the school maâam, arenât you?â
âOf course I am! Iâm pretty much a cat, too. All women areâor didnât you know? Sometimes Iâd like to get out on the tiles and howl. It must be fun. You see? Iâm the character, not you. Hereâs where we turn; and you may see me to my lodgings if you like. It isnât far. I live downtown to save tram fares.â
They had come to one of those steeply descending Halifax streets that break the long procession of shops with a sudden glimpse of the shipping. There was no moon but the harbor water had a faint shine in the starlight, and a liner with rows of yellow portholes lay framed for a moment between the buildings on her way to sea. Miss Jardine slipped an impulsive hand under Carneyâs arm.
âHow lovely! Donât you ever want to go back to ships? I would, if I were a man.â They swung down the street in long strides, due partly to the slope but with a touch of exhilaration, as if the sight of the water in the starlight had set them forth on an adventure. So it seemed to Carney at least. Miss Jardineâs light clasp charged his arm with electricity. When they abandoned the slope and turned along the street on which she lived, she attempted to withdraw her hand, but Carney pressed it firmly against his side.
She halted at last at a doorway beside a small cafe. It was a dingy place. Through the