“Jean, if you please,” said I, deliberately pulling the coat-rack in front of our table, “Mademoiselle perhaps feels a slight draft. Would you fetch a screen?”
He turned. “Helena,” said I, after a moment, “now our adventure has come.”
“What do you mean?” said she. “Why do you do that?”—she nodded at the screen. “Why, I say?”
“I have your parole?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad it is yes!” said I. “You could break it now and escape so easily. One little move on your part and my punishment is at hand.”
“Who was it?” she asked, suspecting.
“No one much,” said I, “only our esteemed friend, Mr. Calvin Davidson, whose waistcoat I am now wearing. Some one is with him, I don’t know who it is. A very nice-looking lady, next to the most beautiful woman in this room, I must say.”
“Let me see,” said she; and I allowed her to look through the crack in the screen.
“She certainly is very stunning,” said I, “is she not? Tall, dark, a trifle superb—I wonder—I wonder sometimes, Helena, if Cal Davidson is true to Poll?”