I knew it was easy. I swung myself aloft on the spikes and stones leading to the donjon window. When I was high enough I gazed in, my chin about even with the sill. And there I saw the prettiest girl I ever beheld, gazing down at a book tranquilly, as though gentlemanly rescuers were common as toads around that tower. She wore something soft and golden; her hair was night-black, and her eyes were that peculiar shade of gray that—but what's the use?
“Pardon,” I said, holding on with my right hand, lifting my hat with my left. “Pardon, am I addressing Miss Annie Hobson?”
“You are not,” she replied, only half looking up. “You are addressing Miss Anita Hobson. Calling me Annie is another little habit father ought to break himself of.” She went on reading.
“Is that a very interesting book?” I asked, because I didn't like to go without saying something more.
“It isn't!” She arose suddenly and hurled the book into a corner. “It's Anthony Hope—and if there's anything I hate it's him. Father always gives me Prisoner of Zenda and Ivanhoe to read when he locks me into this donjon. Says I ought to read up on the situation. Do you think so?”
“There are some other books in the library,” I suggested. “Bernard Shaw and Kipling, you know. I'll run over and get you one.”
“That's fine—but no!” she besought, reaching out her hand to detain me. “No, don't go! If you went away you'd never come back. They never do.”
“Who never do?”
“The young men. The very instant father sees one coming he pops me in the tower and turns the key. You see,” she explained, “when I was in Italy I was engaged to a duke—he was a silly little thing and I was glad when he turned out bogus. But father took the deception awfully to heart and swore I should never be married for my money. Yet I don't see what else a young girl can expect,” she added quite simply.
I could have mentioned several hundred things.