"Why—why, I'm not worrying about being carried off by Francis!" she remembered suddenly. She had been quite forgetful of him, and of anything but the funny, old-fashioned place she was in. She lay back further in the walnut chair, quite sleepily.
"Would you like to go upstairs now, ma'am?" the landlord said. She looked around for Francis, but he was nowhere to be seen. She picked up the handkerchief which had slipped from her lap, cast a regretful look at the yard of kittens, and followed him.
"Here it is, ma'am," said the landlord, and set the suitcase he had been carrying down inside the door. She shut the door after her, and made for the mirror. Then she said "Oh!" in a surprised voice, because Francis was standing before it, brushing his hair much harder than such straight black hair needed to be brushed.
He seemed as much surprised as she.
"Good heavens, I beg your pardon, Marjorie!" he said. "This isn't your room. Yours is the next one."
"I beg your pardon, then," said Marjorie, with a certain iciness.
"You can have this one if you like it better. They're next door to each other. You know"—Francis colored—"we have to seem more or less friendly. Really I didn't know——"
He was moving away into the other room as he spoke, having laid down his brush on her bureau as if he had no business with it at all.
"This isn't my brush," she said, standing at the connecting door and holding it out at arm's length.
"No," said Francis. "I didn't know I'd left it. Thank you."