He replaced the shade, and got out of the chair with a swift movement that seemed not at all one of haste.
"I see no reason," he announced coolly. "I've got to run along now—I merely dropped in to get a manuscript. I think you'll be quite comfortable here—and there's a good bolt on the door. Of course, it's very unconventional, but I hope you'll be kind enough to overlook that, considering the circumstances. And tomorrow, after a good rest, you can make up your mind whether it would be wiser to stick to your first plan or—go home."
He smiled with a vague, disinterested geniality, and added a pleading "Now don't say no!" when he saw that the girl had likewise risen.
"How do you know I've left home?" she demanded hotly.
"Well"—his smile broadened—"deductive faculty—Sherlock Holmes—Dupin—that sort of tommyrot, you know. But it wasn't such a bad guess—now was it?"
"I don't see how you knew," she muttered sulkily.
He ran his long fingers once or twice through his hair in a manner of great perplexity.
"I can't quite tell, myself."
"It wasn't my fault," she protested with a flash of passion. "I lost my job today, and because I said I wanted to go on the stage, my father put me out of the house."
"Yes," he agreed amiably; "they always do—don't they? I fancied it was something like that. But there isn't really any reason why you shouldn't go home tomorrow and patch it up—or is there?"