Millicent was reading the menu when she heard Bower’s voice at her shoulder. “Good morning, Millicent,” he said. “Shall we declare a truce? May I eat at your table? That, at least, will be original. Picture the amazement of the mob if the lion and the lamb split a small bottle.”
He was bold; but chance had fenced her with triple brass. “I really don’t feel inclined to forgive you,” she said, with a quite forgiving smile.
He sat down. The two were watched with discreet stupefaction by many.
“Never give rein to your emotions, Millicent. You did so last night, and blundered badly in consequence. Artifice is the truest art, you know. Let us, then, be unreal, and act as though we were the dearest friends.”
“We are, I imagine. Self interest should keep us solid.”
Bower affected a momentary absorption in the wine list. He gave his order, and the waiter left them.
“Now, I want you to be good,” he said. “Put your cards on the table, and I will do the same. Let us discuss matters without prejudice, as the lawyers say. And, in the first instance, tell me exactly what you imply by the statement that Mr. Charles K. Spencer, of Denver, Colorado, as he appears in the hotel register, is responsible for Helen Wynton’s presence here to-day.”
