"Permit me," I said, offering my arm as formally as if she had been some grand lady in an eastern drawing-room.
"Thank you—I'm afraid I must," and she reluctantly placed a light hand on my sleeve.
I did not like that condescending compulsion, and now out of danger, I became strangely embarrassed and angry in her presence. The "mastiff" epithet stuck like a barb in my boyish chivalry. Was it the wind, or a low sigh, or a silent weeping, that I heard? I longed to know, but would not turn my head, and my companion was lagging just a step behind. I slackened speed, so did she. Then a voice so low and soft and golden it might have melted a heart of stone—but what is a heart of stone compared to the wounded pride of a young man?—said, "Do you know, I think I rather like mastiffs?"
"Indeed," said I icily, in no mood for raillery.
"Like them for friends, not enemies, to be protected by them, not—not bitten," the voice continued with a provoking emphasis of the plural "them."
"Yes," said I, with equal emphasis of the obnoxious plural. "Ladies find them useful at times."
That fling silenced her and I felt a shiver run down the arm on my sleeve.
"Why, you're shivering," I blundered out. "You must let me put this round you," and I pulled off the plaid and would have placed it on her shoulders, but she resisted.
"I am not in the least cold," she answered frigidly—which is the only untruth I ever heard her tell—"and you shall not say 'must' to me," and she took her hand from my arm. She spoke with a tremor that warned me not to insist. Then I knew why she had shivered.
"Please forgive, Miss Sutherland," I begged. "I'm such a maladroit animal."