On the Stairs

I was roused by someone walking across the roof, the cracking of tin
under feet, and a comfortable and companionable odor of tobacco. I
moved a very little, and then I saw that it was a man--the height and
erectness told me which man. And just at that instant he saw me.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated, and throwing his cigar away he came across
quickly. "Why, Mrs. Wilson, what in the world are you doing here? I
thought--they said--"

"That I was sulking again?" I finished disagreeably. "Perhaps I am. In
fact, I'm quite sure of it."

"You are not," he said severely. "You have been asleep in a February
night, in the open air, with less clothing on than I wear in the
tropics."

I had got up by this time, refusing his help, and because my feet were
numb, I sat down on the parapet for a moment. Oh, I knew what I looked
like--one of those "Valley-of-the-Nile-After-a-Flood" pictures.

"There is one thing about you that is comforting," I sniffed. "You said
precisely the same thing to me at three o'clock this morning. You never
startle me by saying anything unexpected."

He took a step toward me, and even in the dusk I could see that he was
looking down at me oddly. All my bravado faded away and there was a
queerish ringing in my ears.

"I would like to!" he said tensely. "I would like, this minute--I'm
a fool, Mrs. Wilson," he finished miserably. "I ought to be drawn and
quartered, but when I see you like this I--I get crazy. If you say the
word, I'll--I'll go down and--" He clenched his fist.