self as he recalled the indignant and incredulous expression of the girl's face when he had made these awful statements. Why hadn't the fool girl a sense of humor? She had seen eventually that he had been innocent of any intentional rudeness or of any other crime than ignorance; why couldn't she have laughed and told him of his blunder, and let it go at that? But under it all he was conscious that what he had said, had bitterly hurt,—that the wound had been unbearable when he admitted that someone had said that Pupu-le and Lolo lived there;—that someone had actually told him that two who were gibingly called Crazy and Idiot, lived there. God, it was terrible! It was unforgivable. He had blundered horribly. But he had not meant to. And then, when she had turned to go, she had said, in that heartbreaking way, that she guessed that it wasn't any mistake. Oh, damn it all, anyway! And then he would attack his typewriter once more, with vicious energy; only to find himself again going over and over the circumstances and swearing copiously at himself and at the man who had lightly passed on the villainous phrase to him and involved him in all this mess.
Also, it must be admitted that his thought, in his more relaxed moments, occasionally slid back to his first glimpse of the girl and to the few minutes there on the roof, before she saw him, when she stood bathing her arms in the splendid wind which was
