"And I have been so fortunate as to help to let you out through the window."
I laughed at the turn our discourse was taking. There was a well-bred ease in his manner, sufficient of itself to banish all shyness.
"My dilemma," he said quietly, "is very different from yours, Miss Burns; I am in the same unfortunate position, in which you found me seven years ago: I cannot get in. I have tried three doors—in vain."
"Here is a fourth," I replied pointing to a low side-door. He knocked against it with his cane, but received no reply.
"Decidedly," gravely observed Edward Thornton, "the place is enchanted.
As old Spenser would say:
'There reigns a solemn silence over all;
Nor voice is heard—'"
Here he broke down in the quotation; I ventured to suggest the rest:
"—nor wight is seen in bower or hall."
"Thank you," he said, with a gracious inclination of his handsome head. "You like Spenser?" he added, resuming the task of tapping against the door with the end of his elegant cane.
"Yes," I answered, "and you?"