She left him standing in the corridor, and went back into her room. The door was wide open, and he could see that she was wearing a white wrapper covered with large red flowers—some kind of Eastern, wadded dressing-gown. He heard a cupboard door creak, and then she came out of the room dragging her big fur coat over her dressing-gown; but he saw that her feet were bare—she had not troubled to put on slippers.
"Go back," he said imperiously, "and put some shoes on, Bubbles—you'll catch your death of cold."
How amazing, how incredible, this adventure would have appeared to him even a year ago! But it seemed quite natural now—simply wilful Bubbles' way. There was nothing Bubbles could do which would surprise Donnington now.
"Don't shut your door," he muttered. "It might wake someone up. Just blow out the candles, and leave the door open."
She obeyed him; and then he took her arm—again blinded by the sudden obscurity in which they were now plunged.
"I hate going downstairs," she said fretfully. "Somehow I feel as if downstairs were full of Them!"
"Full of them?" he repeated. "What on earth do you mean, Bubbles?"
And Bubbles murmured fearfully: "You know perfectly well what I mean. And it's all my fault—all my fault!"
He whispered rather sternly back: "Yes, Bubbles, it is your fault. Why couldn't you leave the thing alone just for a little while—just through the Christmas holidays?"
"I felt so tempted," she muttered. "I forget who it was who said 'Temptation is so pleasing because it need never be resisted.'"