“Do you know what people will say?” his steady voice was slightly lower.
“It won’t be said to me.” Rather wildly. “Nobody minds—really.”
He ceased altogether to look serious. He smiled with the light detached air his world was most familiar with.
“No—they don’t really,” he answered. “I had, however, a slight preference for knowing whether you would or not. You flatter me by intimating that you would not.”
He knew that if he had held out an arm she would have fallen upon his breast and wept there, but he was not at the moment in the mood to hold out an arm. He merely touched hers with a light pressure.
“Let us sit down and talk it over,” he suggested.
A hansom drove up to the door and stopped before he had time to seat himself. Hearing it he went to the window and saw a stout businesslike looking man get out, accompanied by an attendant. There followed a loud, authoritative ringing of the bell and an equally authoritative rap of the knocker. This repeated itself. Feather, who had run to the window and caught sight of the stout man, clutched his sleeve.
“It’s the agent we took the house from. We always said we were out. It’s either Carson or Bayle. I don’t know which.”
Coombe walked toward the staircase.
“You can’t open the door!” she shrilled.