Here was "well enough," but Winton was a man and could not let it
alone.

"I should be very sorry to have you think for a moment that I
would--er--so far forget myself," he went on fatuously. "What I had
in mind was an exchange of seats with him. I thought it would be
pleasanter for you; that is, I mean, pleasanter for--" He stopped
short, seeing nothing but a more hopeless involvement ahead; also
because he saw signals of distress or of mirth flying in the brown
eyes.

"Oh, please!" she protested in mock humility. "Do leave my vanity just
the tiniest little cranny to creep out of, Mr. Winton. I'll promise to
be good and not bore you too desperately."

At this, as you would imagine, the pit of utter self-abasement yawned
for Winton, and he plunged headlong, holding the bill of fare wrong
side up when the waiter asked for his dinner order, and otherwise
demeaning himself like a man taken at a hopeless disadvantage. She
took pity on him.

"But let's ignore Mr. Adams," she went on sweetly. "I am much more
interested in this," touching the bill of fare. "Will you order for
me, please? I like--"

When she had finished the list of her likings, Winton was able to
smile at his lapse into the primitive, and gave the dinner order for
two with a fair degree of coherence. After that they got on better.
Winton knew Boston, and, next to the weather, Boston was the safest