Her nervousness increased as they sped down the Champs Elysees and across the Place de la Concorde. He thought that he understood the cause and presently sought to relieve her anxiety by suggesting that she set him down somewhere along the Rue de Rivoli. She flushed painfully.
"Thank you, Mr. Schmidt, I—are you sure you will not mind?"
"May I ask what it is that you are afraid of, Miss Guile?" he inquired seriously.
She was lowering her veil. "I am not afraid, Mr. Schmidt," she said. "I am a very, very guilty person, that's all. I've done something I ought not to have done, and I'm—I'm ashamed. You don't consider me a bold, silly—"
"Good Lord, no!" he cried fervently.
"Then why do you call me Bedelia?" she asked, shaking her head.
"If you feel that way about it, I—I humbly implore you to overlook my freshness," he cried in despair.
"Will you get out here, Mr. Schmidt?" She pressed a button and the car swung alongside the curb.
"When am I to see you again?" he asked, holding out his hand. She gave it a firm, friendly grip and said:
"I am going to Switzerland the day after tomorrow. Good-bye."