“I—I beg your pardon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, and inclined her head.
He started at the name, whirled about, and peered at her as she stood waiting for him to open the conversation. Then all at once he went past her rapidly, and was at his own door, with the key in the lock, before he became aware that she was back of him. He wheeled abruptly, stared at her, and in a moment came toward her curiously.
“Are you—I—I forget the name,” he said, after a moment’s attempt to recall it. “Are you the girl who took care of me—that night?”
She turned under the glare of the hall light, the snow glistening on her ulster where it had settled, her cheeks tingling, the dainty upper lip quivering with a faint smile.
“I suppose I am.”
It was characteristic of him that he did not at once thank her, but continued gazing down into the unfathomable eyes, now black-blue as the wintry sea.
“Why did you do it?” he said gruffly.
She leaned back, as though withdrawing defensively before his looming inspection, and the door swung open on the darkness of the studio, with its wan, gray spread above where the snow was sifting against the skylight.
“Some one had to—didn’t they?”