The Professor still looked away. “I have been in very bad health until recently,” he volunteered.
“Oh, I’m so glad—glad, I mean,” she corrected herself hastily, “that you’re all right again now! And glad too that you’ve been ill, since that just confirms it—”
Here the Professor fell. “Confirms what?” he snapped, and saw too late the trap into which he had plunged.
“My belief that you are predestined to help me,” replied his neighbour with joyful conviction.
“Oh, but that’s quite a mistake—a complete mistake. I never in my life helped anybody, in any way. I’ve always made it a rule not to.”
“Not even a Russian refugee?”
“Never!”
“Oh, yes, you have. You’ve helped me!”
The Professor turned an ireful glance upon her, and she nodded. “I am a Russian refugee.”
“You?” he exclaimed. His eyes, by this time, had definitely escaped from his control, and were recording with an irrepressible activity and an exasperating precision the details of her appearance and her dress. Both were harmonious and opulent. He laughed incredulously.