"You talk," she declared, "either like George Alexander on the stage, or like a country bumpkin! Why doesn't some one teach you the manners of civilized life?"
"Lady Hilda," he replied, "I am past teaching. You see, the fact of it is that a country bumpkin is exactly what I am."
She turned her white shoulder away from him.
"You will find a candle on the hall table," she snapped.
John rose at once to his feet.
"It's your delightful country air, I suppose," he said. "I am sorry if I betrayed my sleepiness, however. Good night!"
Lady Hilda made no answer. John looked backward from the door. She had kicked off her slipper and was warming her foot before the fire.
"Good night!" he repeated. "I am going to wake like a giant in the morning, and pull you just as far as you like up the river!"
He closed the door, lit a candle, and made his way to his room. As soon as he was there he locked the door and flung the window wide open. Resting his elbows upon the window-sill, he looked out at the soft, misty darkness. He had the sensation of having been through some undignified fight, in which even victory savored of shame. He felt a quivering consciousness, half indignant, half irritated, of having been forced into an impossible situation.
Presently he began to undress. He moved about on tiptoe, and found himself continually listening. He heard Lady Hilda come out from the billiard room below, heard her strike a match as she lit a candle, heard her coming up the stairs. He stood quite still. Suddenly he saw the handle of his door turned softly—once, and then again. He watched it with fascinated, almost horrified eyes. The door was shaken slightly. A voice from outside called him.