“Right!” said Mr. Percy amiably. “He goes round holdin’ Rip Van Winkle Keredec’s hand when the ole man’s cryin’; helpin’ him sneak his trunks off t’ Paris—playin’ the hired man gener’ly. Oh, he thinks he’s quite the boy, in this trouble!”
“I’m afraid it’s a small part,” she returned, “compared to yours.”
“Oh, I hold my end up, I guess.”
“I should think you’d be so worn out and sleepy you couldn’t hold your head up!”
“Who? ME? Not t’-night, m’little friend. I tuk MY sleep’s aft’noon and let Rameau do the Sherlock a little while.”
She gazed upon him with unconcealed admiration. “You are wonderful,” she sighed faintly, and “WONDERFUL!” she breathed again. “How prosaic are drawing-lessons,” she continued, touching my arm and moving with me toward the pavilion, “after listening to a man of action like that!”
Mr. Percy, establishing himself comfortably in a garden chair at the foot of the gallery steps, was heard to utter a short cough as he renewed the light of his cigarette.
My visitor paused upon my veranda, humming, “Quand l’Amour Meurt” while I went within and lit a lamp. “Shall I bring the light out there?” I asked, but, turning, found that she was already in the room.
“The sketch-book is my duenna,” she said, sinking into a chair upon one side of the centre table, upon which I placed the lamp. “Lessons are unquestionable, at any place or time. Behold the beautiful posies!” She spread the book open on the table between us, as I seated myself opposite her, revealing some antique coloured smudges of flowers. “Elegancies of Eighteen-Forty! Isn’t that a survival of the period when young ladies had ‘accomplishments,’ though! I found it at the chateau and—”
“Never mind,” I said. “Don’t you know that you can’t ramble over the country alone at this time of night?”