“Well, Perkins didn’t write it, you know,” Dick went on, hastily. “I did it myself. Or, rather I found it, blowing around, outside, just as I said, and I fixed it.”
At length he became restless under the calm scrutiny of Elaine’s clear eyes. “I beg your pardon,” he continued.
“Did you think,” she asked, “that it was nice to make fun of a lady in that way?”
“I didn’t think,” returned Dick, truthfully. “I never thought for a minute that it was making fun of you, but only of that—that pup, Perkins,” he concluded, viciously.
“Under the circumstances,” said Elaine, ignoring the epithet, “the silence of Mr. Perkins has been very noble. I shall tell him so.”
“Do,” answered Dick, with difficulty. “He’s ambling up to the lunch-counter now.” Mr. Chester went out by way of the window, swallowing hard.
“I have just been told,” said Miss St. Clair to the poet, “that the—er—poem was not written by you, and I apologise for what I said.”
Mr. Perkins bowed in acknowledgment. “It is a small matter,” he said, wearily, running his fingers through his hair. It was, indeed, compared with deep sorrow of a penetrating kind, and a sleepless night, but Elaine did not relish the comment.
“Were—were you restless in the night?” she asked, conventionally.
“I was. I did not sleep at all until after four o’clock, and then only for a few moments.”