“And are you conscious of no novel emotions at hearing it now? Does not the sight of those painted letters cause you to thrill with strange and mysterious sensations? No? What becomes then of the boasted intuition of the feminine mind?”
There seemed to be a jest hidden somewhere in all this, and she smiled plaintively, dubiously. She took her hand from her breast, to show that her breathing was calmer.
“You really assure me,” he went on, with a twinkling eye, “that the spectacle of this particular sported-oak does not especially stir your pulses, and peculiarly impress your imagination?”
“Why should it?”
“Why indeed! Ah, young woman, your sex gets much credit that it ill deserves. A mere man could do no worse in the matter of instinct. My dear friend, behind that door lies your present abode. That name ‘Linkhaw’ is the sign of your home—and you looked at them both and never guessed it!”
Vestalia did not so much as glance at the door in question, but she gazed with much intentness at Mosscrop. “I don’t understand—what it is all about?” she said, slowly.
He had stepped inside his own door, lighted the gas and pulled down the blinds. He returned, and stretched out his hand to take hers. “Do me the honour to come in and sit down,” he said, holding up her gloved fingers, and bowing over them. “You are my nearest neighbour, and yet you have never called upon me.”
She followed him into his sitting-room, and took the easy chair he wheeled out toward the table for her. It was a larger apartment than the narrow staircase and cramped landing had promised. The ceiling was low and dreadfully smoky, it was true, and the appointments and furniture were old-fashioned. But the whole effect, if somewhat meagre and unadorned, was comfortable and honest.
“Put off your hat and gloves, and look as if you felt at home,” urged David. “You’ve but a step to go.”
He busied himself meanwhile in bringing from a recess of the sideboard two tumblers, a heavy decanter filled with an amber liquid, and a big bottle of soda water.