The situation inspired Harold with a hitherto unrealized degree of initiative.
You are going my way . . . Can I take you home? he leaned out of the cab, not without embarrassment, to call to her.
I don't know you, sir.
This rejoinder was made quite simply, without rudeness, but it caused Harold to turn red to the full height of his forehead.
I beg your pardon. I thought . . .
His confusion seemed to reassure her.
You are very good, she said, as she stepped into his cab. I look such a fright crying, I hate to be seen on the street . . . I've been arrested. She sobbed aloud now . . . Father will never forgive me.
But you weren't driving the car.
The chauffeur, as he turned into Fifth Avenue, asked for orders, and Harold gave Alice's address.
You know where I live! she exclaimed with amazement.
I heard you tell the policeman.
You know my name, too?
Yes. . . . Mine is Harold Prewett.
You see, my father says, she resumed, without seeming to have heard him, that a lady will avoid accidents.
It wasn't your fault. He would be a brute to scold you.
I have disobeyed him. He has told me always
