When he came downstairs, she was already at table, sitting imperturbably behind the high silver coffee urn.
“Good-morning, Bob,” she said, as calmly as if they had parted on the best of terms; “I hope you slept.”
Vickers was still conscious of the excitement of his situation—the strange room, the silver, the pretty woman opposite him.
“Thank you,” he said, “I slept something horrid. My temper was only restored by Plimpton. Plimpton is much the nicest person in the house. He admires my figure.”
“Really,” said Nellie, and took up the morning paper.
Vickers let her read in silence—he had enough to occupy his thoughts; but when he had finished, and Plimpton had disappeared for good, he rose and, standing against the mantelpiece, looked down at her and said:
“Could you give me a few minutes of your time and attention, Miss Lee? At least I suppose your name is Lee. Plimpton says so.”
His address succeeded in making her look up. “Plimpton says my name is Lee? Do you need to be told? Are we crazy?”
“We are not crazy, though one of us is rather sadly mistaken,” he answered. “You did not talk last night in a way to invite confidence, Miss Lee. Far be it from me to criticise your social manner, but I can not help thinking that you were not at your best. You were annoyed, and you had the misfortune to make me angry, too. Angry as I was, however, I can see on thinking it over that you must have had a hard time,—so hard that any man would be glad to give you a helping hand, and that, within limits, I am prepared to do.”
Nellie had stopped eating, and was now leaning back in her chair with something of the manner of the first row at a new drama.