Laura looked at him with something that was not quite respect, and not quite affection, but somehow, contained the ingredients of both. Now that he had succeeded in freeing her of that odious handcuff, and been displayed, incidentally, as the complete little gentleman he was, Laura’s feelings towards him had undergone yet another revulsion. At one bound Mr. Priestley had recovered his proper place m her estimation. Handcuffs are an excellent substitute for a time machine. Laura had only known Mr. Priestley, as time is ordinarily reckoned, for a paltry half-dozen hours; she felt as if she had known him intimately for as many years. And he really was rather a dear!
Undoubtedly, Laura now decided once more, it was a shame to be hoaxing him in this way, when the poor man was taking it all so desperately in earnest. For the hundredth time, but for different reasons on almost each occasion, it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth, nearly the whole truth, and hardly anything but the truth. For the hundredth time she refrained. The continuance of the beam through Mr. Priestley’s glasses decided her this time. It was borne in upon Laura that in a way Mr. Priestley really was enjoying himself, at any rate he was living Life with a capital L; and she felt that, after the good turn he had just done her, he did deserve something better at her hands than such an anti-climax as the truth would be. Besides, Laura reminded herself more sternly, it was probably all exceedingly good for him.
“What shall we do?” she repeated meekly. “Well, that seems to be for you to say, Mr. Mullins. I’m rather in your hands, aren’t I?” And she edged uneasily away from some of her clamminess and suppressed a shiver.
Mr. Priestley noticed both movements. “Very well,” he said promptly. “I want to have a talk with you, of course, but it’s no good running the risk of pneumonia. You must get out of those wet clothes of yours. I’ll go down to the kitchen and do the same.”
Laura approved of this programme, and intimated as much with some warmth. She had never felt much drawn towards red flannel before, but just at that moment red flannel appeared the ideal material for the manufacture of night-gowns. Nice, warm, dry, beautiful red flannel! What could a girl want more?
Besides, she was not sorry to put off her talk with Mr. Priestley till the morning. It would give her time to collect her thoughts, and Laura felt that her thoughts needed a good deal of collecting. It was nice of Mr. Priestley to take it so naturally for granted that he should spend the night in the kitchen. How she had misjudged that blameless man!
“And I wonder if the landlady could run to a dressing-gown?” said the blameless man, gazing thoughtfully at the now empty handcuff dangling from his left wrist. It wore something of a wistful air. So did Mr. Priestley.
“I’ll ask her,” Laura said, jumping to her feet. She went to the door and made the noises of a person requiring the presence of her landlady, while Mr. Priestley hastily tucked his handcuff up his coat-sleeve.
The landlady was enchanted with the idea of producing dressing-gowns. She produced two, one with pride and one with apologies. The first was of blue flannel trimmed with white lace; the other was of fairly pink flannel trimmed with fairly white lace. Her husband, it appeared, dispensed with such formalities as dressing-gowns.
By common female consent the pink dressing-gown was allotted to Mr. Priestley. He clutched it, and snatched up his night-shirt.