As he entered the hall from the passage, a woman rushed at him. She was tall, and suspiciously beautiful. She drooped and made eyes. She was shy and daring and coy.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Is it Colonel Gethryn? Is it? Oh, you must be? Oh, Colonel, how thrilling to meet you! How too thrilling!”
Mrs. Roland Mainwaring pleased Anthony not at all. It is to be deplored that he was at no pains to conceal his distaste.
“Mrs. Mainwaring?” he said. “Madam, the thrill is yours.”
She stood blocking his path. Perforce he stood still.
“Oh, colonel, do tell me you don’t think that sweet boy—oh! the beastly police—it’s all too, too horrible and awful!”
Anthony laughed. The thought of Deacon as a “sweet boy” amused him. The lady regarded his mirth with suspicion.
Anthony became ponderously official. “Your questions, madam, are embarrassing. But my opinions are—my opinions; and I keep them”—he tapped his forehead solemnly—“here.”
Awe-stricken eyes were rolled at him. “Oh, colonel,” she whispered. “Oh, colonel! How won-derful!” Then, coyly: “How lucky for little me that I’m a poor, weak woman!”
“I have always,” said Anthony gravely, “believed in equal rights for women. They occupy an equal footing with men in my—opinions.” He bowed and brushed past her, crossing the hall.