For it seemed to him now that he really hadn't known.
"I'll tell you why," said Roma Lennox. "You did it because you were just crazy with caring for another woman—a nice, sweet girl who won't have anything to say to you. And you've been saying to yourself you're durned if she cares, and you're durned if you care. And all the time you feel so bad about it that you must go and do something wicked right away. And taking off your hat to me was your idea of just about the razzlingest, dazzlingest, plumb wickedest thing you could figure out to do."
He rose, and took off his hat to her again.
"If I did," he said, "I beg your pardon. Fact is, I—I—I thought you were somebody else."
"I know it," said she, and paused. "Was it a very strong likeness that misled you?"
"No. No likeness at all. It's all right," he added hurriedly. "I'm going—I—I can't think how I made the mistake."
He looked at the scene, at the nocturnal prowlers and promenaders, at the solitary veiled and seated figure, and he smiled. In all his agony he smiled.
"And yet," he said, "somebody else will be making it if I leave you here. Somebody who won't go. I'll go if you like, but——"
"Sit down," she said; "sit down right here. You're not going till you and I have had a straight talk. Don't you worry about your mistake. I meant you to come up and speak to me."
That staggered him.