"This is so pwofoundly metaphysical that I can't appwehend it at all."
"I think I can," said Violet; "and the distinction seems to me to be just."
Cecil was greatly relieved, and he thanked her with a smile as he said, "I remember, some years ago, being with some ladies in a farm-yard, when a huge mastiff rushed furiously out at us. Before I had time to check my first instinctive movement, I had vaulted over the gate and was beyond his reach; but no sooner was I on the other side than I remembered the ladies were at his mercy. I instantly vaulted back again; but not before the dog was wagging his tail, and allowing them, to pat his head. But imagine what they thought of my gallantry! They never forgave me. I could offer no excuse—there was none plausible enough to offer—and to this day they despise me as a coward."
"Had you given them on the spot," said Violet, gravely, "the explanation you have just given us, they would not have despised you."
"I am greatly obliged to you for the assurance."
He looked his thanks as he said this.
"Still, it must be deuced stwange to find oneself in a pwedicament, and no cowage àpwopos, but only on delibewate weflection."
"It is one of the misfortunes of my temperament."
"It certainly is a misfortune," said Violet.
She became thoughtful. Cecil was radiant.