“I travelled alone—as much alone as one can be with a hundred and fifty saloon passengers who played deck games and enjoyed them. An intellectual woman can have no possible community of interest with people who enthuse over bucket quoits.”
A chair was within reach of his hand and he sat down. Men like Gordon Selsbury seldom lose grip of a situation, however awkward it may be. The sheer weight of their wisdom and their personality has a tendency to roll flat obstacles of the most tremendous nature.
“Now I’m going to be a father and an uncle and a wise old cousin to you,” he said, good nature rigidly and obstinately imprinted in his smile. “You’re a young girl and somebody has got to tell you that you cannot stay alone—er—as the guest of a bachelor.”
She stood, her hands behind her, not the ghost of amusement in her face, unmoved and immovable.
“And I’ve got to tell you, Gordon Selsbury, that I not only can, but I’m going to stay here! I am not responsible for your being a bachelor. You ought to be married. It is unnatural to live in a big house like this by yourself. I have come to stay and, possibly, keep house for you. You must let me have a list of the dishes you like for breakfast. I like grape fruit and hominy with a small crisp slice of bacon. At the same time, Gordon, I am not averse to devilled kidneys à la chef—do you like waffles? I’m crazy about them! We had a Japanese cook who made them to perfection. Another wonderful breakfast dish is tomatoes chiffre....”
“Diana,” he said gravely, “you are distressing me. Of course you can’t possibly stay here! My dear child, I have to consider your good name; in after years you will realise what a dreadful thing you have proposed. Now, my dear, I’m going to ’phone Laridge’s Hotel and ask them to reserve a nice room for you.”
He half rose; her hands dropped to his shoulders and she pushed him down. It was surprising how strong she was.
“Let us have no scandal,” said Diana firmly. “There is only one way to get me out of this house and that is for you to send for a policeman. And a single policeman could do very little. I have an automatic in my dressing-bag.... I shall not hesitate to shoot.”
He gazed at her in horror. She returned the gaze without reproach, without doubt. She had the Will to Stay. He recognised a variation of the Nietzsche principle.
“There is only one thing left for me to do, Diana,” he said. His gravity was so profound that he intoned his speech; it became a Gregorian chant in the minor key. “I must go out from my house and leave you here. I myself must take a room in a near hotel.”