"You are not," he said severely. "You have been asleep in a
February night, in the open air, with less clothing on than I
wear in the tropics."

I had got up by this time, refusing his help, and because my feet
were numb, I sat down on the parapet for a moment. Oh, I knew
what I looked like--one of those "Valley-of-the-Nile-After-a-Flood"
pictures.

"There is one thing about you that is comforting," I sniffed.
"You said precisely the same thing to me at three o'clock this
morning. You never startle me by saying anything unexpected."

He took a step toward me, and even in the dusk I could see that
he was looking down at me oddly. All my bravado faded away and
there was a queerish ringing in my ears.

"I would like to!" he said tensely. "I would like, this
minute--I'm a fool, Mrs. Wilson," he finished miserably. "I ought
to be drawn and quartered, but when I see you like this I--I get
crazy. If you say the word, I'll--I'll go down and--" He clenched
his fist.

It was reprehensible, of course; he saw that in an instant, for
he shut his teeth over something that sounded very fierce, and
strode away from me, to stand looking out over the river, with
his hands thrust in his pockets. Of course the thing I should
have done was to ignore what he had said altogether, but he was
so uncomfortable, so chastened, that, feline, feminine, whatever
the instinct is, I could not let him go. I had been so wretched