“Certainly,” said she; “because you know if you should come too often I can tell the man at the door to say I’m ‘not at home’ to you.”
“But if he ever says: ‘She’s not at home to you,’ I shall walk right in and fall upon the man that you are being at home to just then.”
“But he is a very large man,” said Mrs. Rosscott seriously; “he’s larger than you are, I think.”
Jack felt the blue heavens breaking up into thunderbolts for his head at this speech.
“But I’m way over six feet,” he said, his heart going heavily faster, even while he told himself that he might have known it, anyhow.
“He’s all of six feet two,” she said meditatively. “I do believe he’s even taller. I remember liking him at the first glance, just because he struck me as so royal looking.”
He was miserably conscious of acute distress.
“Do—do you mind my smoking?” he stammered.
(Might have known that, of course, there was bound to be someone like that.)
“Not at all,” she rejoined amiably. “I like the odor of cigarettes. Shall I stop a little, while you set yourself afire?”