"The kitchen is no place for gentlemen."
Tucker laughed tolerantly.
"Did you think so ten minutes ago?"
For the second time she looked in his direction, as she asked quickly:
"What do you mean?"
"Your last visitor was not so respectful."
She had put down the saucepan now, and so he approached and tried to take her hand.
Perhaps this is as good a time as any other to describe the sensation of taking Jane-Ellen's hand. The ordinary mortal put out an ordinary hand, and touched something, something presumably flesh and blood, but so light, so soft, so pliant, that it seemed literally to melt into the folds of his palm, so that even after the hand had been withdrawn (and in this instance it was instantly withdrawn) the feeling seemed to remain, and Tucker found himself staring at his own fingers to see if they did not still bear traces of that remarkable contact.
It was just at this moment that Brindlebury entered the kitchen and said, in a tone which no one could have considered respectful, that the motor was coming up the drive.
Tucker was more apt to meet an awkward situation—and the situation was slightly awkward—by an additional dignity of manner rather than by any ill-considered action.