Now, we had started out with an insane notion that we would say the thimble was for our wife, who was too ill to come down-town and wanted a thimble for a little crochet-work or something to while away the time. You know the sort of silly yarn a man would naturally invent. But we realized at once that it was no use here. We felt that this girl knew we were a bachelor; knew the sort of sewing we do; and probably knew just what buttons were missing on just what coat, and all about that rip in the waist-band of our trousers.
So we held out our finger—our index finger! Patiently she put it back and took the next one to it, holding it very firmly while she tried two or three thimbles on it in rapid succession. We felt like a June bride watching the bridegroom fiddle with the ring.
"Will you take this thimble?" she finally asked.
"I w-w-will!"
The infernal phrase slipped out in spite of us, in a voice which we in vain endeavored to make assured. It was an absurd predicament. All that was lacking was a parson and that tum-tum-tiddee thing from "Lohengrin."
"But isn't it a little loose?" she persisted. Then she took it off and tried on a few more. By this time three or four other girls had come up, and were inspecting us with a detached and somewhat contemptuous interest—all except a little fool who blushed and giggled. If the maternal one hadn't had such a tight hold on our finger, we would have run. We could feel the perspiration sizzling on our burning cheeks.
"Ah, that's better," she said at last, after she had tried on about fifteen. "Men always like them tight, you know. And now you want some thread, don't you?—some nice, strong, black and white thread."
We did, but we wouldn't have admitted it for anything in this world—or the world to come either. Not if we had to fasten our suspenders with clothes-pins. We simply seized that infernal thimble and hurried away in such a blind agony of shame that we forgot our change and nearly knocked a floor-walker down.
Self-possession—gawd!
