"Ah, Miss Lansdale," said Solon, urbanely, "I was just about to speak of you."
"Dear me!" said the young woman, simply. I thought she was aghast.
"Yes—but it's not worth repeating—or finishing."
Miss Lansdale seemed to be relieved by this assurance.
"And now I must hurry off," added Solon.
"Good evening!" we both said.
It seemed to be of a stuff from which curtains are sometimes made, white, with little colored figures in it, but the design would have required at least a column of the most technical description in a magazine I had subscribed for that summer. There was lace at the throat, and I should say that the thing had been constructed with the needs of Miss Lansdale's slender but completed figure solely and clearly in mind.
[CHAPTER XXIX]
IN WHICH ALL RULES ARE BROKEN
Swiftly I appraised the cool perfection of her attire, scenting the spice of the pinks she had thrust at her belt. And I suffered one heart-quickening look from her eyes before she could lower them to me. In that instant I was stung with a presentiment that our treaty was in peril—that it might go fearfully to smash if I did not fortify myself. It came to me that the creature had regarded my past success in observing this treaty with a kind of provocative resentment. I cannot tell how I knew it—certainly through no recognized media of communication.