An exquisite smile illumined her face and a twinkle of mischief played about the corners of her mouth.
“Shall I be perfectly frank?” she asked.
“Please—”
“I laughed at the silly contradiction of allowing you to touch my arm in token of your superior strength as you drew about me the sheltering protection of chivalry. There were no plunging horses near—not even a pushcart in sight. The nearest street-car was five blocks away. Why did you think that I needed help in walking ten yards?”
He held her gaze steadily. She was charming—there was no doubt about it. He had to bite his lips to keep back a foolish compliment that might anger her. How should he bear himself toward such a woman? Her whole being breathed tenderness and femininity, yet there was a dangerous challenge of intellect about her that upset him.
“Why did you think I needed help?” she softly repeated.
“To tell you the truth,” he answered gravely, “I didn’t think at all. The act was instinctive—the inheritance of centuries—”
“Exactly! Centuries of man’s patronage, of man’s tyranny, of his boasted superiority. As long as woman submits to be treated as a doll, a weakling, an incompetent, the supposed superior being must try to do the proper thing in an emergency—”
“You resented it?” he broke in.
“No. I, too, am suffering from the inheritance of centuries—of dependence and of the hypocrisy inbred by generations of chivalry. It was at my own sneaking joy in your protection that I laughed—”