"Right through this door," says Mr. Browne, who, as a rule, is equal to all emergencies. He pushes her gently towards the conservatory she has just quitted, that has steps leading from it to the illuminated gardens below, and just barely gets her safely ensconced behind a respectable barricade of greenery before Mr. Blake arrives on the spot they have just vacated.
They have indeed the satisfaction of seeing him look vaguely round, murmur a gentle anathema or two, and then resign himself to the inevitable.
"He's gone!" says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh of relief.
"To perdition!" says Mr. Browne in an awesome tone.
"I really wish you wouldn't, Dicky," says Joyce.
"Why not? You seem to think men's hearts are made of adamant! A moment ago you sneered at mine, and now——By Jove! Here's Baltimore—and alone, for a wonder."
"Well! His heart is adamant!" says she softly.
"Or hers—which?"
"Of course—manlike—you condemn our sex. That's why I'm glad I'm not a man."
"Why? Because, if you were, you would condemn your present sex?"