“Is it necessary for you to say anything to—me?”
“Can you ever pardon me?”
“I don’t think I understand,” she said, slowly. “Are you asking pardon for your rudeness in speaking to me?”
“No,” he almost groaned; “I’ll do that later. There is something much worse—”
Her cool self-possession unnerved him. Composure is sometimes the culmination of fright; but he did not know that, because he did not know the subtler sex. His fluency left him; all he could repeat was, “I’m sorry I’m speaking to you—but there’s something much worse.”
“I cannot imagine anything worse,” she said.
“Won’t you grant me a moment to explain?” he urged.
“How can I?” she replied, calmly. “How can a woman permit a man to speak without shadow of excuse? You know perfectly well what convention requires.”
Hot, uncomfortable, he looked at her so appealingly that her eyes softened a little.
“I don’t suppose you mean to be impertinent to me,” she said, coldly.