“Julia,” said Tay, as they emerged into Tilney Street, “what is your idea of something real devilish?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that after that flow of soul, I am in a mood to whoop¹ it up, paint the town magenta², get up on a box in Hyde Park and holler, but not to suffragettes. And I want your company. Can’t you feel that way?”

“Perhaps,” admitted Julia, laughing. “What a boy you still are.”

“Not so much of a boy as you think, but enough. But I don’t know your tastes in crime. Give me a hint, and we’ll do it.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t any.”

“You are as truthful⁴ as a woman can be, so investigate your possibilities and own up. Admit that under my demoralizing influence you are suffering some from reaction.”

“I believe I am.” Julia laughed again, with youth in her voice.

“I surmised⁵ as much, if only on general principles. I am subject to violent reactions myself. You’ve been good too long. If you don’t take a mild fling or two, your nervous system will dictate⁶ that you rise in the night and blow up the Prime Minister. Suppose we walk, as it isn’t raining. That, for London, is almost variety enough. Now, if you made up your mind to go on the wildest spree you could think of, what would it be? A French ball, with a hump and a limp; or a day on the Thames, if it happened to be summer, all alone with one man in a punt?”

“Let me think.” Julia had quite fallen in with his mood. “I think I’d go on a sort of platonic⁷ honeymoon⁸ with the most companionable man I knew—you, for instance—to some foreign town, one I’d never visited, and where we could hear the best music. There would be a certain excitement in avoiding English people lest they misinterpret what was

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