"What's the trouble, little woman?" he asked. "Quite surprising to see you unappropriated. Any one been bothering you?"
"Yes—a man. One of the stewards introduced him——"
The ready fire flashed in his eyes.
"Confound him! Where is he? What did he do?"
"Nothing—very much. Only—I didn't like it. Come and sit down somewhere and I'll tell you."
She slipped her hand under his arm, and pressed close to him as they sought out a seat between the rows of glass-fronted book-shelves in which the Lawrence Hall library is housed.
"Here you are," he said. "Sit down and tell me exactly what happened."
She glanced nervously at his face, which had in it a touch of sternness that recalled their painful interview three weeks ago.
"I—I don't think he really knew what he was talking about," she began, her eyes on the butterfly fan, which she opened and shut mechanically while speaking. "He began by saying that fancy balls were quite different to other ones; that the real fun of them was that every one could say and do just what they pleased, and nothing mattered at all. He said his own dress was specially convenient, because no one could expect a Pierrot to be responsible for his actions. Then he—he said that by coming as a butterfly I had given every man in the room the right to—to catch me if he could. Wasn't that hateful?"