“I beg your pardon,” I said.
“I should think you might,” returned the types. “Hullo, old chap! is no way to address a woman you've never had the honor of meeting, even if she is of the most advanced sort. No amount of newness in a woman gives a man the right to be disrespectful to her.”
“I didn't know,” I explained. “Really, miss, I—”
“Madame,” interrupted the machine, “not miss. I am a married woman, sir, which makes of your rudeness an even more reprehensible act. It is well enough to affect a good-fellowship with young unmarried females, but when you attempt to be flippant with a married woman—”
“But I didn't know, I tell you,” I appealed. “How should I? I supposed it was Boswell I was talking to, and he and I have become very good friends.”
“Humph!” said the machine. “You're a chum of Boswell's, eh?”
“Well, not exactly a chum, but—” I began.
“But you go with him?” interrupted the lady.
“To an extent, yes,” I confessed.
“And does he GO with you?” was the query. “If he does, permit me to depart at once. I should not feel quite in my element in a house where the editor of a Sunday newspaper was an attractive guest. If you like that sort of thing, your tastes—”