"I'd love to. It would do me—I mean you—so much good."
"Maybe I'll let you if you'll help me get away. I know they'll find me!" At the prospect the melancholy one once more abandoned herself to the tragedy of existence. "And you don't do a thing but m-m-make fu-fu-fun of me."
Contrition softened the heart of the Tyro. "Oh, look here, Niobe," he began.
"My name isn't Niobe!"
"Well, your nature's distinctly Niobish. I've got to call you something."
"You haven't! You haven't got to ever speak to me again. They'll find me, and catch me, and send me back, and I'll marry that—that Creature, if that's what you want."
This was the argumentum ad hominem with a vengeance. "I want? What on earth have I got to do with it?"
"Nothing! Nobody has anything to do with it. Nobody gives a—a—a darn for me. Oh, I wish I were back home!"
"Now you're talking sense. The pilot-boat is your play."
"Oh! And you said you'd help me." And then the last barrier gave way, and the floods swept down and immersed speech for the moment.