Jervis stood on the next landing and waved his feather brush in the direction of the lift.
"Mayn't I take you down in the lift, Miss—er—Lucille?" he suggested amiably.
"Thanks, no," she answered; "I don't like elevators."
"Elevators?" said Jervis. "Are you American? I made sure you were French."
"Did you?" Lucille remarked, withholding information on the point, but an amused look on her face belied the coldness of her tone.
"Tell me," Jervis persisted, "where do you live, Miss Lucille?"
"Geneva, when I'm at home," she answered.
"A perfect cosmopolitan," said Jervis, with admiration. "French name, American language, and Swiss home. I suppose you would not care to be English by marriage, would you?"
"Is that an offer?" Lucille enquired, looking at him so frigidly that his genial smile was frozen on his face.
"Well," he stammered, "I am engaged, you know, but——"