as one who repeats a lesson. "No, I do not know him. I know—I do not know him."
"But—but. . . . Not know me! It is I—Denton. Denton! To whom you used to talk. Don't you remember the flying stages? The little seat in the open air? The verses—"
"No," cried Elizabeth,—"no. I do not know him. I do not know him. There is something. . . . But I don't know. All I know is that I do not know him." Her face was a face of infinite distress.
The sharp eyes of the chaperone flitted to and fro from the girl to the man. "You see?" she said, with the faint shadow of a smile. "She does not know you."
"I do not know you," said Elizabeth. "Of that I am sure."
"But, dear—the songs—the little verses—"
"She does not know you," said the chaperone. "You must not. . . . You have made a mistake. You must not go on talking to us after that. You must not annoy us on the public ways."
"But—" said Denton, and for a moment his miserably haggard face appealed against fate.
"You must not persist, young man," protested the chaperone.
"Elisabeth!" he cried.
