"It _was_ quite a stunt. I admit it," he said. "Don't you think you sort of ought to--That is, don't you want to reward me?"
She drew away from him and his suggestion.
"Of course I don't mean just that." Pape's eyes were on her lips. "You paid me beforehand. What I wish you'd do is to get me in your debt again. The credit system is the one for me. I can do anything to make good when I'm deep in debt. Will you--won't you----"
A second or so he blinked into the blast of her interruption. By its flare he saw her interpretation of his bad beginning. He tried an extinguisher.
"Wait a minute. Don't flay me before you understand. I'm not such a jasper as to mean to exact--What I wish you'd do--What I want to ask--Jane, have a little mercy on me. Tell me who and what to you is that man living in your flat."
From the look of her, judging dispassionately as possible, all was over between them. She got to her feet, as he to his. She looked strengthened by righteous rage, he weakened by unrighteous humility. She made the only utterances--and they did not help much, being rather fragmentary.
"You think that I--You have assumed that he--You believe that we--So _that_ is why----"
In the pause that preceded the lash of further language, Peter Pape realized what it was to be a dumb brute. He felt as must certain dogs he had tried to understand--faithful, well-intentioned, unequal to explaining themselves. He knew that he did not deserve chastisement at the beloved hand, yet could not resent or avert it. Like a dog he leveled his eyes on hers and looked--silent, honest, worshipful.
And Jane Lauderdale proved to have a heart for dumb brutes.
A taxi with flag out had slowed at her gesture. She was about to enter it. In quiet, crisp tones she gave her address to the driver; then these instructions to Pape:
"Get the next cab that comes along and follow me to East Sixty-third Street. Under the circumstances you will excuse me for preferring to ride over alone. I'll wait for you on the stoop."
She did. And without a word she preceded him up the three screeching, scrooping, shrieking flights, which were not nearly so uncommunicative as his guide.
"Life's a shaky thing. But love is worse--worse--worse"--the first. And the scroopy second: "Things get queerer every step--queerer--queerer." Shrieked the third: "Look out. Like as not he'll leap and lam you. Look out lest he leap and lam!"