"My patient died last night—the old woman I was called away to attend. I thought of you all the while, wondering how you would get home. Indeed, at one o'clock I went back for you, but you had gone."
"That was very kind," Claire returned, still moved by a vague resentment. "I got home as usual ... on the street-car. I do it nearly every night, you know."
Danilo looked at her squarely. "But last night was different. You—you—well, to be frank, you were not dressed for the street."
She had been expecting some such thing and she decided to meet the issue nonchalantly. "Oh, but you didn't see me leave! I was the most dowdy and respectable thing imaginable. A shabby coat and a dingy lace scarf work wonders. I assure you nobody looked twice at me."
Danilo frowned, and he stepped back upon the threshold as he said:
"Nobody would have looked at you even once if I had been along.... I do not want you to dress again as you did last night."
"No?" she gasped.
"No. It makes me.... Well, perhaps you would not understand, now. But later—later you will see why I take the trouble.... As a matter of fact, I would have brought my friend Stillman over to meet you, but I decided to wait for another time ... when you were more like yourself. I wanted him to see you at your best.... I hope my words do not offend you. But you have no brother and...."
He finished with a shrug. His words did not offend her—they struck deeper, so deep that all her pride rose to meet the issue with a smiling acceptance of his rebuke. "Offended? Oh, my dear, no! You are frank about it, at all events." She forced a laugh. "I shall try to be good in the future."
He did not succumb to her strained mirth. He merely looked at her with a note almost disapproving as he gravely said good-by.