"I beg pardon," I stammered, and
I think my look at her must have been very humble--for me.
The others in the box were staring round at us. "Come on," cried Sam,
dragging at my arm, "let's go."
"Won't you come?" I said to his sister. I shouldn't have been able to keep
my state of mind out of my voice, if I had tried. And I didn't try.
Trust the right sort of woman to see the right sort of thing in a man
through any and all kinds of barriers of caste and manners and breeding.
Her voice was much softer as she said: "I think I must stay here. Thank
you, just the same."
As soon as Sam and I were alone, I apologized. "I hope you'll tell your
sister I'm sorry for that break," said I.
"Oh, that's all right," he answered, easy again, now that we were away from
the others. "You meant well--and motive's the thing."
"Motive--hell!" cried I in my anger at myself. "Nobody but a man's God
knows his motives; he doesn't even know them himself. I judge others by
what they do, and I expect to be judged in the same way. I see I've got a
lot to learn." Then I suddenly remembered the Travelers Club, and asked him
what he'd done about it.
"I--I've been--thinking it over," said he. "Are you _sure_ you want to
run the risk of an ugly cropper, Matt?"
I turned him round so that we were facing each other.
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