“What favor, sir?”
“That, if ever you have the least cause to be displeased with the conduct of that man in the future, you will consider it as my business, and as an insult offered to me—as it will be after the trouble of last night—and that you will let me know of the matter by letter. Here is my address.”
Winifred hesitated, then took the proffered card.
“But—” she faltered.
“No; promise me that. It really is my business now, you know.”
“I cannot write to you. I—don’t—know you.”
“Then I shall only have to stand sentinel a certain number of hours every day before your house, to see that all goes well. You can’t prevent me doing that, can you? The streets are free to everybody.”
“You are only making fun.”
“That I am not. See how stern and solemn I look. I shall stand sentinel and gaze up at your window on the chance of seeing your face. Will you show yourself sometimes to comfort me?”