“A year or more ... oh! what shall I do without—!”
The rest was strangled by a will-power fifty years older than herself. But for a second she stood shaking from head to foot, trying vainly to master feelings too complex and difficult for her young soul to understand; and he—well, he remained frozen to his place, not daring to move, to say a word; absolutely terrified for the first time in his brave, straight life.
From his high perch Bolingbroke watched the scene, half of his biscuit still held firmly in one sharp claw, his brilliant head inclined to one side critically, cynically—one would have sworn. “What fools these mortals be!” he seemed to say, and doubtless to create a diversion he dropped the remainder of his tidbit upon Basil’s shoulder, and burst into a demoniacal yell, like that of a Comanche Indian on the war-path.
The “Gamin” gave a little laugh so queer that it made its hearer ready to cry, and she let go of his arm. “You wicked old witch-bird!” she scolded. “What a fright you gave me!”
“He is a bit startling!” Basil assented, endeavoring to get control of his voice.
“Yes, he makes one’s head ache,” she corroborated. “But just think of it! Poor papa is still in the dust. Let’s go and sweep the cobwebs off him. He must be covered with them!”
She made a swift move toward the flower-gallery’s jessamine-draped doorway, and paused, holding lightly to a drooping branch.
“By the way,” she said, over her shoulder, “when do you go?”
“When do I—go? In a few days, but ... I’ll certainly come and say farewell before I do,” he lamely replied.
“Thanks so much! Yes, I think it will be right to remember us on such an occasion. Papa is so very punctilious about matters of etiquette, you know!”