As his door was only a few feet away from hers, she waited in the hall and looked curiously into his room after he had lighted up. She noticed that the place was filled with gymnastic paraphernalia—clubs, dumb-bells, weights, and a boxing bag apparatus. Meanwhile, he rummaged through the articles on the mantelpiece until he discovered the missing money tucked snugly away in an empty match-box.
"I don't know how it got there," he said, ruefully. "I guess I meant to put it underneath, but slipped it into the box absent-mindedly."
She smiled. "You have a complete pocket gymnasium," she commented.
"Yes, I'm pretty well rigged out," he replied, delighted at her show of interest.
He was very much impressed with her appearance, which mirrored a world socially more elevated and more beautiful than his own. He racked his wits for an excuse to detain her.
"Is this how you keep in trim?" asked Cornelia, indicating the apparatus.
"I—I'm a professional wrestler and a physical culture expert," he went on, fumbling in his pocket for a visiting card.
"Ah, I see. It's business, not pleasure." She did not look at the card, but flashed eloquent glances at his figure.
"That's it," he replied, emboldened by her mute flattery. "Will you come in and let me show you around? Young ladies aren't always interested in these things."
"Another time. It's too late now."