This delighted the Gnani, for though himself self-supporting, the lady would require physical sustenance for some time.
“And you’ll hurry back, Lonnie Llama?” pleaded Imogene.
“But twenty-four hours at most, Sweet Thing, only tonight and tomorrow, and tomorrow I’ll telep every sixteen minutes from sunrise to sunset.”
“Well, if you must—you must,”—sighed Imogene. “I wish you didn’t have to stay but a couple of minutes.”
“Well, it’s good-bye sweetest,—until—until—” and the mystic sighed dismally; “until sunset tomorrow.”
“No, no, I can’t have it so. Linger—longer—Lonnie Llama. I’m all broke up,” and Imogene wept.
“I say, what’s the rush?”
The lovers, startled, sprang to the extreme ends of the divan. It was the unhappy Bill Vanderhook who stood before them.
Unhappy? No. Surely this was not the face of an unhappy man, nor of a vengeful one. He did not even appear to be out of humor. His face was illumined with a benevolent smile. His hat was shoved well back on his head and his hands were in his pockets, after the manner of extreme joviality.
He had entered unobserved and now stood surveying them with the most genial and conciliatory smile.