But Miss Davison had entirely recovered her self-possession by this time, and she leaned back in her chair, played with the glove she had taken off, and said—
“Was that what all the fuss was about? The crowd and the crush round a private door at the back?”
“Yes,” said he shortly.
“Tell me all about it,” said she.
And suddenly leaning forward, she looked at him with an expression in which interest in his narrative was combined with perfect innocence as to the details to be related.
Gerard did not know whether to be amazed, disgusted, or amused. This brazen attitude might either be considered shocking, perplexing, or simply whimsical, as one chose to look at it. He looked down, and when he raised his head again, after being lost in thought for a few moments, he fancied he surprised upon Miss Davison’s beautiful face a sort of wistful look, as if she was sorry and ashamed of the attitude she had to take up, or at least that was the fancy that came into his head about it.
He dashed into his narrative abruptly when their eyes met.
“A woman was caught in the act of stealing something, I believe,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, but meeting with no shrinking in return; “and I learn that she is an old offender. A smartly dressed woman who goes about to the best shops, and is well-known, but whom, as I gathered, they’ve not been able to catch before.”
“And have they caught her now?” asked Miss Davison innocently. He stammered and grew red.
“They—they seemed to think so,” he said, in a voice that was not steady.