kindness. In another second I would have blurted out the whole truth, when a voice seemed to say inside of me, "No, she is alone in this hotel to-night with you. She is, in a way, at your mercy. You will be doing an unchivalrous thing if, when she is practically deserted by her people and thrown upon your protection, you proclaim yourself a lover in place of a servant." That voice was right. Even you can't say it wasn't.
I swallowed my confession with a spoonful of soup, and nearly choked over the combination.
"The fact is," I said desperately yet cautiously, "since you are kind enough to take an interest, that I—er—am not exactly what I seem to-day. My parents were gentlefolk, in a humble way." (I didn't go beyond the truth there, did I? And as for the "humble way," why, everything goes by comparison, from a king down to a mere viscount.) "They gave me an education" (they did, bless them!), "but owing to—er—strong pressure of circumstances" (the effect of Her beauty, seen in a Paris garage) "I decided to make use of my mechanical knowledge in the way I am doing at present."
"I suppose," commented my Goddess, with the sweetest sympathy, "that you had lost your money."
"Well," I said, thinking of my late penniless condition and my watch at the pawnshop, "I have a great deal less money now than I was brought up to expect."
"That is very sad," she sighed.
"And yet," I remarked, "it has its compensations. I consider my place with you a very good one."
