The American noted the circumstance subconsciously, at a moment when Miss Calendar's hand, small as a child's, warm and compact in its white glove, lay in his own. And then she was on the sidewalk, her face, upturned to his, vivacious with excitement.
"You have been so kind," she told him warmly, "that one hardly knows how to thank you, Mr. Kirkwood."
"I have done nothing—nothing at all," he mumbled, disturbed by a sudden, unreasoning alarm for her.
She passed quickly to the shelter of the pillared portico. He followed clumsily. On the door-step she turned, offering her hand. He took and retained it.
"Good night," she said.
"I'm to understand that I'm dismissed, then?" he stammered ruefully.
She evaded his eyes. "I—thank you—I have no further need—"
"You are quite sure? Won't you believe me at your service?"
She laughed uneasily. "I'm all right now."
"I can do nothing more? Sure?"