“Poetical license,” he explained airily. “Hold on, though.” He fell silent a moment, and out of that silence came a short laugh. “I suppose I _am_ beyond the pale of law, now that I come to think of it. But you needn’t be alarmed, I’m not a really dangerous criminal.” Later she was to recall that confession with sore misgivings. Now she only inquired lightly: “Is that why you ran away from the tram car yesterday?” “Ran away? I didn’t run away,” he said, with dignity. “It just happened that there came into my mind an important engagement that I’d forgotten. My memory isn’t what it should be. So I just turned over the matter in hand to an acquaintance of mine.” “The matter in hand being me.” “Why, yes; and the acquaintance being Mr. Cluff. I saw him throw four men out of a hotel once for insulting a girl, so I knew that he was much better at that sort of thing than I. May I go back now and sit down?” “Of course. I don’t know whether I ought to thank you about yesterday or be very angry. It was such an extraordinary performance on your part—” “Nothing extraordinary about it.” His voice came up out of the shadow, full of judicial confidence. “Merely sound common sense.” “To leave a woman who has been insulted—” “In more competent hands than one’s own.” “Oh, I give it up!” she cried. “I don’t understand you at all. Fitzhugh is right; you haven’t a tradition to your name.” “Tradition,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Why, I don’t know. They’re pretty rigid things, traditions. Rusty in the joints and all that sort of thing. Life isn’t a process of machinery, exactly. One has to meet it with something more supple and adjustable than traditions.” “Is that your philosophy? Suppose a man struck you. Wouldn’t you hit him back?” “Perhaps. It would depend.” “Or insulted your country? Don’t you believe that men should be ready to die, if necessary, in such a cause?” “Some men. Soldiers, for instance. They’re paid to.” “Good Heavens! Is it all a question of pay in your mind? Wouldn’t _you_, unless you were paid for it?” “How can I tell until the occasion arises?” “Are you afraid?” “I suppose I might be.” “Hasn’t the man any blood in his veins?” cried his inquisitor, exasperated. “Haven’t you ever been angry clear through?” “Oh, of course; and sorry for it afterward. One is likely to lose one’s temper any time. It might easily happen to me and drive me to make a fool of myself, like—like—” His voice trailed off into a silence of embarrassment. “Like Fitzhugh Carroll. Why not say it? Well, I much prefer him and his hot-headedness to you and your careful wisdom.” “Of course,” he acquiesced patiently. “Any girl would. It’s the romantic temperament.” “And yours is the scientific, I suppose. That doesn’t take into account little things like patriotism and heroism, does it? Tell me, have you actually ever admired—really got a thrill out of—any deed of heroism?”