She drew back and looked at me perplexed, and I could see the gathering alarm in her wide, innocent, serious eyes.
SHE DREW BACK AND LOOKED AT ME PERPLEXED.
“Oh, no, thanks!” she said, and I knew that all that she had ever heard of bunco-steerers and of the wily crafts of the town was mingling in terrifying confusion in her mind with thoughts of possible escape.
My distress was as great as her own. I had forgotten for the moment how dismaying to a woman must be an unexpected offer of service from a sudden apparition of full grown, masculine, street poverty. I felt guilty as though I had wantonly frightened a child. A parcel had fallen to the ground. I picked it up, and returned it to her with an apology most spontaneous and sincere. But as I turned away in haste to escape from the embarrassment of the situation, I found myself checked to my great surprise by a timid question: “Perhaps you can tell me the shortest way to number — La Salle Street?” she said.
My hat was off at once.
“It will give me great pleasure to show you the way,” I replied, and not waiting for a refusal, I set off with, “Won’t you follow me, pray?” over my shoulder.
At the curb of the first crossing I waited for her.
“Keep close to me,” I said, “and I’ll see you safe across the street.” But I ignored the parcels, which were once more awry. On the opposite pavement she stopped.
“Would you mind holding my bag,” she asked, “while I get a better grip on these bundles?” I accepted the bag with an assurance of the pleasure that it gave me. It was soon followed by a parcel, the largest and most unwieldy of the lot. She finished adjusting the others, and then extended her free hand for the remaining parcel.