"Merciful heaven!" groaned Amidon; "I can't do it!"
"You have," said Madame le Claire; "and more—a good deal more."
"It was that scoundrel Brassfield," said he, in perfect seriousness. "More? What do you mean by 'more'?"
"Well, sometimes you——"
"He, not I!"
"You, I think we had better say—sometimes, when you were alone, your arm went about her waist; her head was drawn down upon your bosom; and with your hand, you turned her face to yours, and——"
"Clara, stop!" Amidon's bashful being was wrung to the sweating-point as he uttered the cry. "I never could have done it! And do you mean to say I must now act up to a record of that kind—and with a strange woman? She—she won't permit it—— Oh, you must be mistaken! How do you know this?"
Madame le Claire blushed, and seemed to want words for a reply. Amidon repeated the question.
"I want to know if you are sure," said he. "To make a mistake in that direction would be worse than the other, you know."
"Ah, would it?" said Clara; "I didn't know that!"