Roland's discomfort increased. Chivalry had
always been his weakness. In the old days, on a hundred and forty
pounds a year, he had had few opportunities of indulging himself
in this direction; but now it seemed to him sometimes that the
whole world was crying out for assistance.
Should he speak to her? He wanted to; but only a few days ago his
eyes had been caught by the placard of a weekly paper bearing the
title of 'Squibs,' on which in large letters was the legend "Men Who
Speak to Girls," and he had gathered that the accompanying article
was a denunciation rather than a eulogy of these individuals. On the
other hand, she was obviously in distress.
Another sniff decided him.
"I say, you know," he said.
The girl looked at him. She was small, and at the present moment had
that air of the floweret surprized while shrinking, which adds a good
thirty-three per cent. to a girl's attractions. Her nose, he noted, was
delicately tip-tilted. A certain pallor added to her beauty. Roland's
heart executed the opening steps of a buck-and-wing dance.
"Pardon me," he went on, "but you appear to be in trouble.
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