"Dorothy!" the woman called over her shoulder; "ring for the porter."
"By all means," assented Kirkwood agreeably. "I'll send him for a gendarme."
"You insolent puppy!"
"Madam, your wit disarms me—"
"What is the matter, Mrs. Hallam?" interrupted a voice from the other side of the door. "Who is it?" "Miss Calendar!" cried Kirkwood hastily, raising his voice. "Mr. Kirkwood!" the reply came on the instant. She knew his voice! "Please, Mrs. Hallam, I will see Mr. Kirkwood."
"You have no time to waste with him, Dorothy," said the woman coldly. "I must insist—"
"But you don't seem to understand; it is Mr. Kirkwood!" argued the girl,—as if he were ample excuse for any imprudence!
Kirkwood's scant store of patience was by this time rapidly becoming exhausted. "I should advise you not to interfere any further, Mrs. Hallam," he told her in a tone low, but charged with meaning.
How much did he know? She eyed him an instant longer, in sullen suspicion, then swung open the door, yielding with what grace she could. "Won't you come in, Mr. Kirkwood?" she inquired with acidulated courtesy. "If you press me," he returned winningly, "how can I refuse? You are too good!"
His impertinence disconcerted even himself; he wondered that she did not slap him as he passed her, entering the room; and felt that he deserved it, despite her attitude. But such thoughts could not long trouble one whose eyes were enchanted by the sight of Dorothy, confronting him in the middle of the dingy room, her hands, bristling dangerously with hat pins, busy with the adjustment of a small gray toque atop the wonder that was her hair. So vivacious and charming she seemed, so spirited and bright her welcoming smile, so foreign was she altogether to the picture of her, worn and distraught, that he had mentally conjured up, that he stopped in an extreme of disconcertion; and dropped the hand-bag, smiling sheepishly enough under her ready laugh—mirth irresistibly incited by the plainly-read play of expression on his mobile countenance.