I should have liked to ask them whether
they felt well, but I realised--only just in time--that the question
would have been an impertinence.
"Are you getting satisfied?" said my unwearied guide, with another of
her smiles, "or, do you still think we are a puny misshapen race?"
"Quite satisfied!" I replied, faintly, as I endeavoured to unclose a
rapidly discolouring eye, "in fact, I begin to discredit that alarmist
cry--"
Before I could complete the sentence, I found myself executing an
involuntary parabola over some adjacent parallel bars. My young
friend's brows had contracted into a frown, although she waited
politely for me to pick myself up.
"I thought we agreed not to mention that name!" she said, coldly.
I felt that any attempt to explain my innocence would be received
with quiet scorn. "I--I should like to ask you just one thing
more," I said, desperately, as I lay on my back, "I am really
entirely converted--quite ashamed. I do hope you won't think
me--er--inquisitive--but I have been so often told--it has been so
constantly asserted--" I found myself bungling horribly in my desire
not to offend.
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