That beauty should know distress!

Very slightly he raised his forearm so that the lock of his elbow felt
her hand. He had no fine words. This George was no hero with exquisite
ways. He was a most average young man, and nothing could he find but
most painfully average words.

"I say, what's up?" he asked.

She spoke defiantly; but some stupid something that she hated yet
could not repress trembled her lips, robbed her tone of its banter.
"What's up?" she said. "Why, _you_ would say something was up if you'd
just been shot plump out of a cab, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, but you were laughing a minute ago." He looked down at her, but
she turned her face. "Now, now, I believe--" He did not name his
thought.

She looked up. Her pretty face was red. He saw little flutters of
eyelids, flutters round the eyes, flutters at the mouth. "Oh," she
said, "oh, yes, and I don't know why. I'm--I believe--" She tried to
laugh, but the little flutterings clouded the smile like soft, dark
wings flickering upon a sunbeam.

"I believe--it's ridiculous to a perfect--imperfect--stranger--I
believe I'm nearly--crying."

And this inept George could only return: "I say--oh, I say, can I
help you?"