“She staged it well, didn’t she? She must have brains.”
“She has brains all right, but I don’t think––”
“She knew of course that if she made enough noise someone would come, and she’d get the credit for good intentions.”
“I really don’t think, Barbe.... Now let me tell you. You’ll see what she’s like. I felt very much as you do. I was right on the jump. Got all worked up. Would have gone clean off the hooks if––”
There followed the narrative of his loss of temper, of his wild talk, of her clever strategy in counting ten—“just like a cold douche it was”—and the faint turn he so often had after spells of emotion. To convince Miss Walbrook of the queer little thing’s ingenuousness he told how she had made him lie down on the library couch, covered him up, rubbed his brow with Florida water, and induced the best sleep he had had in months.
She surprised him by springing to her feet, her arms outspread. “You great big idiot! Really there’s no other name for you!”
He gazed up at her in amazement. “What’s the matter now?”
Flinging her hands about she made inarticulate sounds of exasperation beyond words.
“There, there; that’ll do,” she threw off, when he jumped to her side, to calm her by taking her in his arms. “I’m not off the hooks. I don’t want anyone to rub Florida water on my brow—and hold my hand—and cradle me to sleep––”