"There's a law about hectoring and insulting a female person on the
street--some kind of a law--and we'll invoke it in this case," Britt
insisted.

"Why, Mr. Britt, he's only a harmless old man with extremely poor
judgment about most things, including a girl's looks," she protested.

"Don't you call that gabble an insult to you, walking along and minding
your own business?" His heat was alarming; he shook his fist to indicate
the Prophet.

She was unable to restrain her demure smile. "The specifications, sir,
are overflattering; but I'm sure I don't feel insulted."

In the past Britt had purred paternally in her presence and had stared
at her in a way that often disconcerted her. Now his expression alarmed
her. His face grew red. At first she thought he was embarrassed by
the reflection that he had been terming the Prophet's compliments an
insult--intimating that she had no claim to such compliments. But Mr.
Britt did not bother to deal with that phase of the matter. The flame
was shifted from his face to his eyes; his cheeks grew pale. He tried
to put his arm about her. She set her gloved hands against the arm and
pushed it away, fright popping her eyelids wide apart.

"I want to protect you," Britt stuttered. "I don't want any harm or
trouble to come to you."

He stepped back and gazed at her imploringly. His abashed obedience, his
promptness in desisting, restored her self-possession immediately. She