THE MADNESS OF MUCH KISSING "That was a very noble thing of you," Miss Grace Sheraton was saying to me, as we passed slowly among the big trees of the Sheraton apple orchard.

Her eyes were rather soft and a slight color lay upon her cheeks, whose ivory hue was rarely heightened in this way.
"I am in ignorance, Miss Grace," I said to her.
"Fie! You know very well what I mean--about yesterday." "Oh, that," said I, and went rather red of the face, for I thought she meant my salutation at the gate.
She, redder now than myself, needed no explanation as to what I meant.
"No, not that," she began hastily, "that was not noble, but vile of you! I mean at the tavern, where you took my part--" So then I saw that word in some way had come to her of the little brawl between Harry Singleton and myself.

Then indeed my face grew scarlet.
"It was nothing," said I, "simply nothing at all." But to this she would not listen.
"To protect an absent woman is always manly," she said.

(It was the women of the South who set us all foolish about chivalry.) "I thank you for caring for my name." Now, I should have grown warmer in the face and in the heart at this, but the very truth is that I felt a chill come over me, as though I were getting deeper into cold water.

I guessed her mind.