He stared at the ceiling, silent, imperturbable.
"And I'm going to give you safe conduct through the lines—or if necessary I'll buy your ticket and start you for New York. And if there's an atom of honor in you, you'll go peaceably and not publish the fact that you know the whereabouts of these ladies."
He reflected gravely for a moment.
"I think," he said, "that on the whole that's a fair proposition. But you seem to have the impression that I wish to annoy these ladies."
"You don't for a moment imagine that you are likely to entertain them, do you? You haven't got the idea that you are necessary to their happiness, have you?"
He raised himself on his elbow with some difficulty; flinched as he tried to make himself comfortable and began:
"The trouble with Miss Pat is—"
"There is no trouble with Miss Pat," I snapped.
"The trouble between Miss Pat and me is the same old trouble of the buttons," he remarked dolorously.
"Buttons, you idiot?"