He laughed. “I didn’t; but if you insist on thinking so, I suppose there’s no harm.”
This seemed to content her; she nodded her head, smiled sunnily, then became grave again. “And to think you’d risk your own life to save—even mine!” she murmured.
“That’s merely absurd, Miss Cromwell. By not the remotest possibility could it be conceived that I placed myself in any jeopardy whatever.”
“Well”——she returned, indefinitely, but seemed to reserve the right to maintain her own conviction in the matter. “I think ‘jeopardy’ is a beautiful word, Mr. Bromley,” she added, after a moment’s silence. “I mean, whether you admit you were in jeopardy or not, it’s a word I think ought to be used oftener because it’s got such a distinguished kind of sound.” She repeated it softly, to herself. “Jeopardy.” Then, in a somewhat louder voice, but as if merely offering a sample sentence in which this excellent word appeared to literary advantage, she murmured: “He placed his life in jeopardy—for me.”
“I didn’t!” her companion said, sharply. “The word is extremely inappropriate in any such connection.”
“I just used it to see how it would sound,” Cornelia explained. “I mean, whether you did get in jeopardy or anything, or not, on my account, Mr. Bromley, I was just seeing how it would sound if I said it. I mean, like this.” And she began to repeat, “He placed his life in jeopardy——”
“Please oblige me,” Mr. Bromley interrupted. “Don’t say it again.”
His tone was brusque, and she looked up inquiringly to find him frowning with annoyance. She decided to change the subject.
“Do you care much for Christmas, Mr. Bromley?” she asked, in the key of polite small talk. “It strikes me as terribly tiresome, myself. I’m positively looking forward to the next school term.”
“Are you?”