“Bartlett!—Bartlett!” her hands clasping, and unclasping nervously. “Why, what a strange coincidence!”
“How? What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing,” biting her lips in vexation. “The name merely recalled something. But really I must go, Mr. Keith, or I shall be late at the theatre. You have not attended since I came?”
“No,” arising from the table with her. “However, I have heard you sing before, and hope I may again.”
“How tenderly you dwell on that word 'hope,'” she said banteringly, “it almost makes me envious.”
“Your resemblance almost makes me forget.”
“But not quite?”
“No, not quite,” he confessed, smiling back into her quizzing eyes.
They went out into the hall together, only to meet with Doctor Fairbain at the door. The latter stared at the two with some embarrassment, for a moment forgetful of his purpose. His gaze settled on the face of the lady.
“Always getting you two mixed,” he blurted forth. “Never saw such resemblance—positively uncanny—same hotel too means trouble—this Miss Waite?”