So, that was the attitude this ruffian took with a respectable and
ostensibly married woman! And she had mistaken him for a gentleman! She
had even begun to feel a reluctant sort of liking for him; at any rate,
an interest in his ambiguous and perplexing personality. Now--how dared
he! She put it to him at once: "How dare you!"

"Flashing eye, stamp of the foot, hands outstretched in gesture of
loathing and repulsion; villain registers shame and remorse," prescribed
the unimpressed subject of her retort. "As a wife, you are, of course,
unapproachable. As a widow, grass-green, crepe-black, or only
prospective"--he suddenly assumed a posture made familiar through the
public prints by a widely self-exploited savior of the suffering--"there
is H-O-P-E!" he intoned solemnly, wagging a benignant forefinger at her.

The butterfly struggled with an agonizing desire to break down into
unbridled mirth and confess. Pride restrained her; pride mingled with
foreboding as to what this exceedingly progressive and by no means
unattractive young suitor--for he could be relegated to no lesser
category--might do next. She said coolly and crisply:

"I wish nothing more to do with you whatever."

"Then I needn't quit the Garden of Ed--I mean, Our Square?"

"You may do as you see fit," she replied loftily.

"Act the gent, can't chuh?" reproved the Mordaunt Estate. "You're makin'
the lady cry."

"He isn't," denied the lady, with ferocity. "He couldn't."