“Tired already, Mr. Smilash?” she said mockingly.
He looked up deliberately, took off one of his washleather gloves, fanned himself with it, displaying a white and fine hand, and at last replied, in the tone and with the accent of a gentleman:
“Very.”
Agatha recoiled. He fanned himself without the least concern.
“You—you are not a laborer,” she said at last.
“Obviously not.”
“I thought not.”
He nodded.
“Suppose I tell on you,” she said, growing bolder as she recollected that she was not alone with him.
“If you do I shall get out of it just as I got out of the half-crowns, and Miss Wilson will begin to think that you are mad.”