Miss St. Quentin resumed her walk.
"You really think it stands in one's way," she said reflectively, "you really think it a disadvantage, to be a woman?"
"Oh! good Lord!" Mr. Quayle ejaculated, softly yet with an air so humorously aghast that it could leave no doubt as to the nature of his sentiments. Then he cursed himself for a fool. His shoes indeed had made a mighty creaking! He expected an explosion of scornful wrath. He admitted he deserved it. It did not come.
Miss St. Quentin looked at him, for a moment, almost piteously. He fancied her mouth quivered and that her eyes filled with tears. Then she turned and swung away with her long, easy, even stride. Mentally the young man took himself by the throat, conscience-stricken at having humiliated her, at having caused her to fall, even momentarily, from the height of her serene, maidenly dignity. For once he became absolutely uncritical, careless of appearances. He fairly ran after her along the platform.
"Dear Miss St. Quentin," he called to her, in tones of most persuasive apology.
But Honoria's moment of piteousness was past. She had recovered all her habitual lazy and gallant grace when he came up with her.
"No—no," she said. "Hear me. I began this rather foolish conversation. I laid myself open to—well to a snubbing. I got one, anyhow!"
"In mercy don't rub it in!" Mr. Quayle murmured contritely.
"But I did," Honoria returned. "Now it's over and I'm going to pick up the pieces and put them back in their places—just where they were before."
"But I protest!—I hailed a new combination. I discover in myself no wild anxiety to have the pieces put back just where they were before."