"May I not help you—I could offer you a chair——"
She interrupted him while she struggled up, refusing his proffered hand.
"I've knocked myself against your nasty table—why do you have it in that place!"
Michael sat down upon the edge of it, and went on in his ironical tone:
"Had I known I was to have the honor of this visit, I should certainly have had it moved."
"There is no use being sarcastic," the girl said, almost crying now. "It hurts very much, and—and—I want to go home."
Mr. Arranstoun pushed a comfortable monster seat toward her, and said more sympathetically:
"I am very sorry—but where is home?"
The girl sank into the chair, and smoothed out her pink cotton frock; the skimpy skirt (not as narrow as in these days, but still short and spare!) showed a perfect pair of feet and ankles.
"She's American, of course, then," Michael said to himself, observing these, "and quite pretty if that smudge of grime was off her face."