"Y-e-s," she agreed, but there was no enthusiasm in her tone. Then she turned warmly upon me.
"I 'm thinking, though, that you 've been gifted with mighty little sense, Knowles Swift, to have acted so recklessly. The very idea of a sane man creeping through that dark hall and up those dark stairs, and plunging into he knew not what!" She eyed me severely.
"But I did know," I protested meekly. "It was the étagère"
There was a solemn rebuke in the slow shaking of her head. "A man swears so," she sighed, "when he does anything awkward, like that."
I remained discreetly silent.
However, she was too much exercised over my "wound"—as she persisted in calling the scratch on my cheek—and the loss of the ruby to encourage any levity. Honestly, at that moment I cared not a whit for the ruby. Besides, there were consolations which I need not record. It was real—very, very real; and I was the happiest man in the world.
Genevieve was also curious to learn—and very naturally so—what had transpired between Belle and me.
"How is she now?" I parried. I had concluded that when Miss Belle was again her normal self, she would rather have our little episode forgotten.
"Calm as a graven image," was the reply. Grief and anxiety trembled in Genevieve's voice. "But it is a stony, deathlike sort of calm that gives me the creeps. The poor girl is distracted. She wants to be alone; she sent me to you."
"She sent you," said I, with quick interest. This struck me as being rather curious.