With this she flitted away; and my thoughts, passing by the problem submitted, involuntarily reverted to the little rosewood case in the spare room. But her absence was of a brevity suggesting the performance of the professional quick-change artist. In a minute or two I heard her approach and open the door; and I turned—to receive a real knock-out blow.
I was so astonished and dismayed that I suppose I must have stood staring like a fool, for she asked in a rather disconcerted tone:
“What is the matter, Rupert? Why are you looking at my jumper like that? Don’t you like it?”
“Yes,” I stammered, “of course I do. Most certainly. Very charming. Very—er—becoming. I like it—er—exceedingly.”
“I don’t believe you do,” she said, doubtfully, “you looked so surprised when I first came in. You don’t think the colour too startling, do you? Women wear brighter colours than they used to, you know, and I do think this particular shade of green is rather nice. And it is rather unusual, too.”
“It is,” I agreed, recovering myself by an effort. “Quite distinctive.” And then, noting that I had unconsciously adopted Thorndyke’s own expression, I added, hastily, “And I shouldn’t describe it as startling, at all. It is in perfectly good taste.”
“I am glad you think that,” she said, “for you certainly did look rather startled at first, and I had some slight misgivings about it myself when I had finished it. It looked more brilliant in colour as a garment than it did in the form of mere skeins.”
“You made it yourself, then?”
“Yes. But I don’t think I would ever knit another. It took me months to do, and I could have bought one for very little more than the cost of the wool, though, of course, I shouldn’t have been able to select the exact tint that I wanted. But what about our meal? Shall we call it tea or supper?”
She could have called it breakfast for all I cared, so completely had this final shock extinguished my interest in food. But I had to make some response to her eager hospitality.