Mr. Mapleson peeped. Presently he saw the girl's quick slender fingers twist the tie into a bow, then give it a finishing pat; and as if yet fearful he should be seen, he was effacing himself, when the young man moved and he heard him draw a little breath.
"Thanks," said the young man briefly.
The girl's eyes leisurely lifted themselves. Briefly they dwelt on his, then their gray depths lighted suddenly. A moment later a tinkling ripple of merriment left her and she turned away.
"You're welcome!" she laughed; and she and the young man moving out of view, Mr. Mapleson made the best of his opportunity.
Gliding down the hallway, he quietly opened the door at the other end. Then, stepping inside, he as quietly closed it behind him. He was in Mrs. Tilney's kitchen, a sanctuary tabooed usually to Mrs. Tilney's guests. Across the floor the lady herself stood near the range shrilly exhorting her cook, a red-faced person of astonishing girth and—notably—impenetrable calmness.
"Mary Mangin, my Gawd!" Mrs. Tilney addressed her; "d'you wish to be the death of me? Enough's happening without your burning the soup! Take off that kettle at once, d'you hear me?"
Quaking as she moved, the behemoth emerged momentarily out of the vapors surrounding the cookstove.
"Be aisy, will ye!" admonished Mary Mangin. "What wit' y'r carryin' ons th' day 'twill be a wonder we're not worse an' all!"
It was at this moment that Mr. Mapleson spoke.