“I have never seen a play, except the funny little ones we acted at the convent,” she said, “but isn't that the way they speak on the stage?”
Crailey realized that his judgment of the silence bad been mistaken, and yet it was with a thrill of delight that he recognized her clear reading of him. He had been too florid again.
“Let us go.” His voice was soft with restrained forgiveness. “You mocked me once before.
“Mocked you?” she repeated, as they went on.
“Mocked me,” he said, firmly. “Mocked me for seeming theatrical, and yet you have learned that what I said was true; as you will again.”
She mused upon this; then, as in whimsical indulgence to an importunate child:
“Well, tell me what you mean when you say I saved your life.”
“You came alone,” he began, hastily, “to stand upon that burning roof—”
“Whence all but him had fled!” Her laughter rang out, interrupting him. “My room was on the fourth floor at St. Mary's, and I didn't mind climbing three flights this evening.”
Crailey's good-nature was always perfect. “You mock me and you mock me!” he cried, and made her laughter but part of a gay duet. “I know I have gone too fast, have said things I should have waited to say; but, ah! remember the small chance I have against the others who can see you when they like. Don't flout me because I try to make the most of a rare, stolen moment with you.”