“That is why I took the room,” said the count. “But now I am here I can’t get into it or find any one who will open the door.”
He was locked out. Mrs. Bushey was absent imparting the mysteries of physical culture and Emma, the maid, was not to be found. In the lower hall was a pile of luggage that might have belonged to an actress touring in repertoire, and the count could think of nothing better to do than sit on it till some one came by and rescued him. Not at all sure that he might not be a novel form of burglar, I invited him into my parlor and set him by the register to thaw out. He accepted my hospitality serenely, pushing an armchair to the heat, and asking me if I objected to his wrapping himself in my Navajo blanket.
“How fortunate that I knocked at your door,” he said, arranging the blanket. “Otherwise I should surely be froze.”
I had an engagement at the dentist’s and disappeared to put on my things. When I came back he rose quickly to his feet, the blanket draped around his shoulders.
“I am going out,” I said. “I have to—it’s the dentist’s.”
“Poor lady,” he murmured politely.
“But—but you,” I stammered; “what will you do while I’m gone?”
Holding the blanket together with one hand he made a sweeping gesture round the room with the other.
“Stay here till you come back.”
I thought of Roger or Betty chancing to drop in and looked on the ground hesitant. There was a slight pause; I raised my eyes. The count, clasping the two ends of the blanket together over his breast, was regarding me with mild attention.