I followed her into the reception-room, thinking the butler had made some sort of mistake.
“How did you come out?” she asked eagerly, facing me. “You look your natural self—not tired or worried—so it must have been not so bad as you feared.”
“If our friend Langdon hadn't slipped away, I might not look and feel so comfortable,” said I. “His brother blundered, and there was no one to checkmate my moves.” She seemed nearer to me, more in sympathy with me than ever before.
“I can't tell you how glad I am!”
Her eyes were wide and bright, as from some great excitement, and her color was high. Once my attention was on it, I knew instantly that only some extraordinary upheaval in that household could have produced the fever that was blazing in her. Never had I seen her in any such mood as this.
“What is it?” I asked. “What has happened?”
“If anything disagreeable should be said or done this evening here,” she said, “I want you to promise me that you'll restrain yourself, and not say or do any of those things that make me—that jar on me. You understand?”
“I am always myself,” replied I. “I can't be anybody else.”
“But you are—several different kinds of self,” she insisted. “And please—this evening don't be that kind. It's coming into your eyes and chin now.”
I had lifted my head and looked round, probably much like the leader of a horned herd at the scent of danger.