“Don't trouble,” she interrupted. “Just write me a check, please.”
Without a word, but with a very sulky expression, the General banged open a writing-desk and hastily scribbled in his check-book, while the undutiful Miss Kerry turned to me as graciously as ever. But I thought I had carried my plot far enough for the present. Besides, she must come down-stairs, and my room was on the ground floor.
“I fear I must leave you, General,” I said.
“I must go, too,” said Miss Kerry, as I turned to make my adieux to her. “Good-bye, uncle. Much obliged for this.”
It seemed to my ear that there was a laugh in that word “uncle,” and as I saw the unfortunate warrior watch our exit with a face as purple as his “niece's” dress, I heartily pitied the foiled Adonis. Yet if fortune chose so to redistribute her gifts, was it for me to complain?
“May I accompany you for a short distance this time?” I asked.
And a couple of minutes later I was gayly walking with her from the house, prepared to hail a cab and hurry away my prize upon the first sign of pursuit. No appearance, however, of a bereaved general officer running hatless and distraught with jealousy behind us. Evidently he had resigned himself to his fate—or did he place such reliance in the fidelity and devotion of his “niece”? Well, we should see about that!
“Then you remembered me?” I said.
“How do you know?”
“By that question. Ah, it has betrayed you! Yes, you do remember the ignorant and importunate foreigner who pursued you with his unpleasing attentions?”