The girl shrank back a pace—two paces—uttering a low-toned monosyllable of understanding, an "O!" abruptly gasped. Simultaneously her face and throat flamed scarlet.
"Your room, Mr. Lanyard!"
Her tone so convincingly voiced shame and horror that his heart misgave him. Not that alone, but the girl was very good to look upon. "I'm sure," he began soothingly; "it doesn't matter. You mistook a door—"
"But you don't understand!" She shuddered…. "This dreadful habit! And
I was hoping I had outgrown it! How can I ever explain—?"
"Believe me, Miss Bannon, you need explain nothing."
"But I must…I wish to…I can't bear to let you think…But surely you can make allowances for sleepwalking!"
To this appeal he could at first return nothing more intelligent than a dazed repetition of the phrase.
So that was how…Why hadn't he thought of it before? Ever since he had turned on the lights, he had been subjectively busy trying to invest her presence there with some plausible excuse. But somnambulism had never once entered his mind. And in his stupidity, at pains though he had been to render his words inoffensive, he had been guilty of constructive incivility.
In his turn, Lanyard coloured warmly.
"I beg your pardon," he muttered.