"Nothing," she told him.
"And no questions asked?"
"No."
"And nobody sitting up for you, ready to put the clock on half an hour, and point a finger at it when you return?"
"No-o...." She twirled the tumbler jerkily between soft thumb and forefinger. "They think I 'm in bed. And I did go," with a sudden resurrection of self-righteousness. "Only"—the self-righteousness went under here—"... when they were all asleep ... I slipped out and came to Cliff Wrangham."
"So-o-o!" said the Spawer, spraying his comprehension hugely this time with the word, as though it were a shower-bath to enlightenment. "That 's the secret of things at last, is it?" His eyes were spinning on the girl like peg-tops in delicious amusement. "And I suppose I 've got to guard it with my life's blood?"
A grateful face flashed thankfulness up at him for its relief from the necessity of appeal.
"Here 's the bond," said he. "Subscribe, and say done." He threw out an open palm of contract across the table, and the small hand crept into it with the timorous, large-hearted trust for an unfamiliar shelter. "And I 'm afraid," he said self-reproachfully, "that you 've torn your dress?"
"Oh, no, ... a little." She made-believe to look at her skirt between the table and sofa, and take stock of the damage done. "It 's nothing."
"At the time," said the Spawer, "it sounded terrible enough. I hope it is n't as bad as the sound."