"What I ought to have said," she went on, her face a mask of cold politeness, "is that you can't possibly get out by the lodge. There are fierce dogs. And the lodge-keepers are worse than the dogs. If you will follow me—at a distance, for fear I should begin to talk to you again—I'll show you where the gardener's ladder is, and you can put it up against the wall and get out that way."
"Couldn't I get out where the tramps get in?" he asked, humbly. "I don't like to trouble you."
"Not from here. We should have to pass close by the house."
The "we" gave him courage. "I say—do forgive me," he said.
"There's nothing to forgive," said she.
"Oh, but do," he said, "if you'd only see it! It was just because it was so wonderful and splendid to have met you like this . . . and to have you talk to me as you do to the other tramps."
"You're not a tramp," she said, "and I ought not to have forgotten it."
"But I am," said he, "it's just what I really and truly am."
"Come and get the ladder," said she, and moved toward the wall.
"Not unless you forgive me. I won't," he added, plucking up a little spirit, "be indebted for ladders to people who won't forgive a man because he speaks the truth clumsily."