‘I really don’t think there’s any need to trouble you,’ Alice replied. These respectful phrases always stirred her pleasurably: in listening to them she bore herself with dignity, and endeavoured to make answer in becoming diction.
‘Trouble? What other object have I in life but to serve you? I’ll put it in another way: you won’t refuse me the pleasure of being near you for a few minutes?’
‘I’m sure you’re very kind. I know very well it’s taking you out of your way, but it isn’t likely I shall refuse to let you come.’
Mr. Keene bowed low in silence.
‘Have you brought me that paper?’ Alice asked, seating herself with careful arrangement of her dress. ‘The Christmas number with the ghost story you spoke of, you know?’
In the course of a varied life Mr. Keene had for some few months trodden the boards of provincial theatres; an occasional turn of his speech, and still more his favourite gestures, bore evidence to that period of his career. Instead of making direct reply to Alice’s question, he stood for a moment as if dazed; then flinging back his body, smote his forehead with a ringing slap, and groaned ‘O Heaven!’
‘What’s the matter?’ cried the girl, not quite knowing whether to be amused or alarmed.
But Mr. Keene was rushing from the room, and in an instant the house door sounded loudly behind him. Alice stood disconcerted; then, thinking she understood, laughed gaily and ran upstairs to complete her packing. In a quarter of an hour Mr. Keene’s return brought her to the drawing-room again. The journalist was propping himself against the mantelpiece, gasping, his arms hanging limp, his hair disordered. As Alice approached he staggered forward, fell on one knee, and held to her the paper she had mentioned.
‘Pardon—forgive!’ he panted.
‘Why, where ever have you been?’ exclaimed Alice.