The discovery that it was a comedy gave him back all his aplomb, and he found the hooks and disengaged them with a dexterity which no real husband could have improved upon.
“There,” he said; “though why any woman should wear a gown so fashioned that she can neither dress nor undress herself passes my comprehension. Why not put the hooks in front?”
“And spoil the effect? Impossible! The hooks must be in the back,” and still standing before the window, she slowly drew her bodice off.
Stewart had seen the arms of many women, but never a pair so rounded and graceful and beautiful as those at this moment disclosed to him. Admirable too was the way in which the head was set upon the lovely neck, and the way the neck itself merged into the shoulders—the masterpiece of a great artist, so he told himself.
“I wonder if there is a shutter to that window?” she asked, suddenly, starting round toward it. “If there is, you would better close it. Somebody might pass—besides, I do not care to sleep on the ground-floor of a strange house in a strange town, with an open window overlooking the street!”
“I’ll see,” said Stewart, and pulling back the curtains, stuck out his head. “Yes—there’s a shutter—a heavy wooden one.” He pulled it shut and pushed its bolt into place. “There; now you’re safe!”
She motioned him quickly to lower the window, and this he did as noiselessly as possible.
“Was there anyone outside?” she asked, in a low tone.
He shook his head. The narrow street upon which the window opened had seemed quite deserted—but the shadows were very deep.
“I wish you would open the bags,” she said, in her natural voice. “I shall have to improvise a nightdress of some sort.”