"I can take care of myself," Rose declared, tossing her head.
"Perhaps," I replied. "In the meantime, when I am away on duty—on duty, mind you—Leonard is going to play watchdog."
She dropped a little curtsey to both of us.
"One would think that I were a masquerading princess," she observed.
"You're our princess," I answered quickly.
The peevishness passed from her face in a moment.
"If only you'd tell me so sometimes!" she murmured.
I was at no time quite able to make up my mind how Sara Clèry really regarded my visits. On the first day, she received my present of roses and my compliments with unmistakable pleasure. On the second day, she was still amiable but a little puzzled. On the third day she received me with greater intimacy than ever before, and I was never so relieved as when the opportune arrival of one of her regular admirers—the tenor with whom she was singing—enabled me to beat a graceful retreat. On the fourth afternoon, the specially indicated Thursday, I found her in a state of agitation. It is my confident belief that on that occasion, but for my douceur to her maid, which ensured my prompt entry, I should have been denied admission. She welcomed me with mingled affection—simulated—and suspicion. There was no return of her previous day's attitude.
"You find me distracted," she declared presently. "A terrible tragedy has happened."
I murmured a word or two of sympathy. She looked at me earnestly, as though anxious to probe my mind, to assure herself of my sincerity.