The stairway was comfortably narrow; he had only to grasp a rail with either hand, and half lift himself, half hop up step by step. In this manner he accomplished the ascent in excellent, if hopelessly ungraceful, style. At the top he limped to a wooden seat beside one of the bath-houses and sat down with so much grim decision in his manner that it was evident to the woman the moment she rejoined him. But he mustered a smile to meet her look of concern, and shook his head.
"Thus far and no farther."
"Oh, but you must not be stubborn!"
"I mean to be—horrid stubborn. In fact, I don't mind warning you that there's a famous strain of mule in the Whitaker make-up."
She was, however, not to be diverted; and her fugitive frown bespoke impatience, if he were any judge.
"But seriously, you must—"
"Believe me," he interrupted, "if I am to retain any vestige of self-respect, I must no longer make a crutch of you."
"But, really, I don't see why—!"
"Need I remind you I am a man?" he argued lightly. "Even as you are a very charming woman...."
The frown deepened while she conned this utterance over.