"It's four o'clock," she added hastily, and her smiles had vanished. "Are you the only person in the house?"
Taken aback, and obviously mortified by this sudden change of manner, he took a backward step and replaced the music box on the table. In his face, with a slight quivering of the lips, came the first signs of embarrassment he had shown. He bowed: not the gracious, self-possessed, courtly salutation of a kingly welcome with which he had first greeted her, but a solemn inclination of the head, as one who humbles himself—but gracefully—before an angry deity. And he murmured:
"I am sorry."
Her eyebrows went up. "Sorry for what?"
"I don't know—exactly."
For an instant she failed to understand. Then into her face came a gentler expression. "Yes, you do! You are sorry because you think you have troubled me; but it is I who beg your pardon. I am ashamed of myself. You have given me a lesson in politeness."
And she smiled her sweetest smile. Whereupon the sunshine returned to his own face. Encouraged by this change of atmosphere, he resumed with new courage his rôle of host. For a moment he studied her face, uncertain as to what was expected of him. Folding his hands above his head, he glanced about the room, searching for inspiration. It came. His face brightened. The slumbrous eyes sparkled. Coming a step nearer, he demanded with suppressed enthusiasm:
"Do you care for snakes or mice?"
The visitor regarded him with a kind of terror.
She frowned, turned her face to one side and shook her head. The host misunderstood the movement.