Again she broke her sentence abruptly, and after a little pause, short in
itself but amply long for a girl like Dorothy to change her mind two score
times, she continued: "It would not be for the best. What think you,
Cousin Malcolm?"

"Surely the girl has gone mad," thought I. Her voice was soft and
conciliating as if to say, "I trust entirely to your mature, superior
judgment."

My judgment coincided emphatically with her words, and I said: "I spoke
only in jest. It certainly would not be right. It would be all wrong if
you were to meet him."

"That is true," the girl responded with firmness, "but--but no real harm
could come of it," she continued, laughing nervously. "He could not strike
me nor bite me. Of course it would be unpleasant for me to meet him, and
as there is no need--I am curious to know what one of his race is like.
It's the only reason that would induce me to consent. Of course you know
there could be no other reason for me to wish--that is, you know--to be
willing to meet him. Of course you know."

"Certainly," I replied, still clinging to my unsuccessful irony. "I will
tell you all I know about him, so that you may understand what he is
like. As for his personal appearance, you saw him, did you not?"

I thought surely that piece of irony would not fail, but it did, and I
have seldom since attempted to use that form of humor.

"Yes--oh, yes, I saw him for a moment."