"If I wanted to be nasty," Mrs. Inche explained, "you'd be on your way now to a cell in the East Fifty-first Street station. But I was grateful."
"The Saints be praised for that!" exclaimed the little man fervently. "What's it for?"
"For waking me up in time to prevent my murder in my sleep," she returned coolly; "and also for being the spunky little devil you are and chasing off that hound of a husband of mine. If it wasn't for you, he'd've got me sure. Or else," she amended, "I'd've got him; which would have been almost as unpleasant—what with being pinched and tried and having juries disagree and getting off at last only on the plea of insanity—and all that."
"Madam," said P. Sybarite, rising, "the more I see of you, the more you claim my admiration. I entreat you, permit me to go away before my emotion deepens into disastrous infatuation."
"Sit down," countered Mrs. Inche amiably; "don't be afraid—I don't bite. Now you know who I am, but before you go, I mean to know who you are."
"Michael Monahan, madam." This was the first alliterative combination to pop into his optimistic mind.
"Can that," retorted the lady serenely—"solder it up tight, along with the business of pretending to be a cop. It won't get you anything. I've a proposition to make to you."
"But, madam," he declared with his naïf and disarming grin—"believe me—my young affections are already engaged."
"You're not half the imbecile you make yourself out," she judged soberly. "Come—what's your name?"
Taking thought, he saw no great danger in being truthful for once.