"But he'll never know. It's not the sort of thing any one would think of. I leave the motor down at Sixth Avenue, and this time of year it's so dark. As soon as I heard Miss Davis was leaving I thought how nice the place would be for you."
Since it was useless to make the obvious correction here, I thanked her for her kindness, going on to add:
"But I don't want to get into any trouble."
"No, of course not." She began moving toward the door. "What kind of trouble were you thinking of?"
I wondered whether or not, having taken one liberty, I could take another.
"When I see my boat being caught in the rapids I'm afraid there's a cataract ahead."
It took her some thirty seconds to seize the force of this. Having got it her eyes fell.
"Oh, I see! And does that mean," she went on, her bosom heaving, "that you're afraid of the cataract on your own account—or on mine?"
I paused in our slow drifting toward the door. She was a great lady in the land, and I was nobody. I had much to risk, and I risked it.
"Should I offend you," I asked, deferentially, "if I said—on yours?"