She stiffened her shoulders for the fray. “I wish to tell you because I’m ashamed of myself now. Of course, it’s not a secret. I have punctured my bicycle, and have to walk home—three miles more. And I saw your light in front of me, and was frightened.”
His eyes were as bright as her own, but much more mischievous. “Frightened?” he said. “What, of the light?”
“No, no, of course not. But some one must have lit it.”
“Do you mean to say that you were frightened of me? The most harmless creature on God’s earth?”
She laughed. “How could I know how harmless you were? I thought you were gipsies.”
“I couldn’t be gipsies. Perhaps I am a gipsy—I’m not sure that I know what I am. My father might, poor man—and he’s an alderman. That light, let me tell you, was going to cook my supper; and now it shall cook yours, if you’ll have some.”
An invitation suggested in that way can only have one answer from a young woman. “No, thank you. I must go on if I can. It’s dreadfully late.” He reflected.
“It’s late, but it’s not dreadful at all. These summer nights are made to live in. Look at the moon on those misty bushes! Nothing lovelier can be dreamed of by poets than the hours from now to dawn. Sightseers always go for daylight—and in July everything’s blotted up in sap green. There’s no drawing in July—I say, you might get up, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I might.” She tried, and sat down again with a wry face. “It hurts awfully.” He had watched the performance.
“I guessed it would. Well, look here. I’ll help you.” He put out his two hands, met hers, and pulled her gently up by the wrists. “Lean on my shoulder—lean as hard as you like.” So she did, because she must.