Randall dropped it at once. Her own incoherence communicated itself to him.
"I didn't mean— I didn't realize——"
"Oh, it's perfectly all right," said Clancy soothingly. "If I were you, I'd probably like to hold my hand, too."
She laughed. Randall discovered from the laugh that he had not offended irreparably. Emboldened, he snatched at the hand again. But they were in the hall, and Mrs. Gerand, disapproving of eye as she looked at this young couple violating the austerity of her house by open and bold flirtation, was only twenty feet away.
"Let's go in the parlor," said Clancy.
There was a sort of sofa near the old-fashioned marble mantel in the parlor, and in the exact center of this Clancy sat. Randall was forced to deposit himself upon a chair, a rickety affair which he drew as near to Clancy as he dared. He coughed nervously. Then he smiled—a broad smile, the smile, he thought, of large friendliness, of kindly impersonality. Clancy was not deceived by it.
"How'd you find me here?" she demanded. "Didn't I refuse to tell you my address?"
"Mrs. Carey told me this morning."
"Oh, she did! Why did she do that?"
"It wasn't a crime, was it?" asked Randall aggrievedly. "I guess that she thought she owed it to me—after last night."