“Is that what you call rescuing the flag?”
“Oh, rescuing!” he said slightingly. “What difference does it make what vermin like that mob do? Just for a whim, to endanger all of you.”
She stared at him in amaze and suspicion. But he was quite honest.
“My whim,” she reminded him.
“Yes; I suppose it was,” he admitted thoughtfully. “When I saw you crying, I lost my head, and acted like a child.”
“Then it was all my fault?”
“Oh, I don’t say that. Certainly not. I’m master of my own actions. If I hadn’t wanted—”
“But it was my fault this much, anyway, that you wouldn’t have done it except for me.”
“Yes; it was your fault to that extent,” he said honestly. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Oh, beetle man, beetle man!” She leaned forward, her eyes deep-lit pools of mirth and mockery and some more occult feeling that he could not interpret. “Would it scare you quite out of your poor, queer wits if I were to hug you? Don’t call for help. I’m not really going to do it.”