"Furthermore," argued the little man, purposefully unresponsive, "he probably thinks himself forced to seem insistent by the part he's playing. His father doesn't know of this entanglement; he'd disinherit Bayard if he did; naturally, Bayard wouldn't dare to seem reluctant to hasten matters, for fear of rousing the old man's suspicions."
"It may be so," she responded vacantly, in the confusion of adjusting her vision of life to this new and blinding light....
"Tell me," he suggested presently, stammering—"if you don't mind giving me more of your confidence—to which I don't pretend to have any right—only my interest in—in you—the mystery with which you surround yourself—living alone there in that wretched boarding-house—"
He broke off with a brief uneasy laugh: "I don't seem to get anywhere.... My fear lest you think me presumptuous—"
"Don't fear that for another instant—please!" she begged earnestly; and swinging to face him again, gave him an impulsive hand. "I'm so grateful to you for—for what you've saved me from—"
"Then..." Self-distrustful, he retained her fingers only transiently. "Then why not tell me—everything. If I understood, I might be able to offer some suggestions—to save you further distress—"
"Oh, no; you can't do that," she interrupted. "If what you've said is true, I—I shall simply continue to live by myself."
"You don't mean you would go back to Thirty-eighth Street?"
"No," she said thoughtfully, "I'm—I don't mean that."
"You're right," he assured her. "It's no place for you."