Hugh imprisoned the little hand in his own huge ones, and smiled at the girl.
“I call that just sweet of you,” he answered. “Just sweet.... Having people worry about me is not much in my line, but I think I rather like it.”
“You’re the most impossible person,” she remarked, releasing her hand. “What sort of a night did you have?”
“Somewhat particoloured,” returned Hugh lightly. “Like the hoary old curate’s egg—calm in parts.”
“But why did you go at all?” she cried, beating her hands together. “Don’t you realise that if anything happens to you, I shall never forgive myself?”
The soldier smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, little girl,” he said. “Years ago I was told by an old gipsy that I should die in my bed of old age and excessive consumption of invalid port.... As a matter of fact, the cause of my visit was rather humorous. They abducted me in the middle of the night, with an ex-soldier of my old battalion, who was, I regret to state, sleeping off the effects of much indifferent liquor in my rooms.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
“They thought he was your American millionaire cove, and the wretched Mullings was too drunk to deny it. In fact, I don’t think they ever asked his opinion at all.” Hugh grinned reminiscently. “A pathetic spectacle.”
“Oh! but splendid,” cried the girl a little breathlessly. “And where was the American?”