[XIII]
The opened door admitted more than David Randall. It let in a snowy gust that beat upon Clancy's bosom, rendering her more conscious than even a masculine presence could that the dress she wore was new to her experience. Randall was almost blown through the doorway. He turned and forced the door closed. Turning again, he recognized Clancy, who had retreated, a pink picture of embarrassment, to the foot of the staircase.
"Do I frighten you?" he asked dryly.
Clancy recovered the self-possession that never deserted her for long.
"No one does that," she retorted.
"I believe you," said Randall. His good-humored face wore a slightly pathetic expression. If no man is a hero to his valet, still less is he to the woman for whom he has conceived a sudden devotion which is as yet unreturned.
Clancy dropped him a courtesy.
"Thank you," she said, "for believing me."
He moved toward her, holding out his big hands. Clancy permitted them to envelop one of hers. Randall bowed over it. His face, when he lifted it, was red.
Blushes are as contagious as measles. Clancy was grateful for the cry from above.