Everything was dark and still, and as they stood shivering in the porch, the Bishop remarked, producing his latch-key:
"Do you know I—I'm really afraid to open the door."
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and they entered softly.
"Is there anything I can get for the Leopard, before she retires?" he asked apologetically, as they crossed the stone-paved floor of the palace by the aid of a single bedroom candle, which only served to accentuate the surrounding darkness.
"No, thank you, I'm all right," she faltered, putting her foot on the first step of the stairs. And then, without the slightest warning, she burst into tears.
His Lordship, completely bewildered at this unexpected turn of affairs, patted her on the head, saying: "Dear, dear!" much as he would have done to obstreperous babies suspicious of baptism. But the fair Violet wept on.
"What is it?" said the Bishop. "What have I done?"
"You haven't done anything," she replied between her sobs, "but I—I'm so dreadfully hungry."
"Dear me!" exclaimed his Lordship, "I forgot all about dinner."
It was quite true that, in his anxiety to catch trains and make a series of bewildering connections, the question of food had entirely escaped his memory, and, now he came to think of it, he was ravenously hungry himself.