His eagerness was so palpable, almost so boyish, that Margaret could not repress a soft laugh. Rather gingerly she came back a step, and he held out his watch.
"It is half-past nine," she said.
"There you are, you see; it isn't late at all! Now you stop out till ten, and I'll take myself off"—and with a nod he walked toward the steps, with Margaret's antimacassar shawl in his hand.
"My lord!" she said, in a tone of annoyance, for it seemed as if he had done it on purpose.
"Yes," he responded, turning back very promptly.
"Will you give me my anti—my shawl, please?"
"Eh? Oh, of course, I beg your pardon," he said, "I took it up intending to ask you to put it on—nights are chilly sometimes. Here you are. Let me put it on for you."
"No, no, thank you," said Margaret, taking it from him.
"Well, it is warm," he said, looking up at the sky, and then quickly returning his gaze to her face. "It's a pity you can't paint this; but you artists get rather handicapped on these night scenes, don't you? Want a big moon and a waterfall, and all that kind of thing?"
Margaret smiled. Certainly, in matters pertaining to art he was a perfect savage.