"I beg your pardon," he said, but a little bitterly. She lowered her eyes.
"It is I who should beg yours. I must go now. Eleven-fifteen!"
Feeling that romance was somewhat overworked, he replied, "Right ho!"
CHAPTER IV
BREAKERS AHEAD!
At eleven-thirty Lionel found himself enjoying a tête-à-tête supper in a Bloomsbury flat. He had obtained a cab, as commanded, and the lady and he had driven home together. There had been no adventures, no spies, no melodrama. In unromantic silence had they gone, for after the thrills of the afternoon and evening neither had been in the mood to talk. On reaching her flat, which was on the first floor, the lady had let herself in with a latch-key, and they had gone straight into the prettiest little sitting-room imaginable. Here a cold supper, simple but excellent, was laid: a bottle of hock and a siphon of lemonade were the only liquors visible. They supped together, talking briskly of various themes, but Lukos and the treaty were not mentioned till they had finished. When they had established themselves in armchairs and lighted a couple of cigarettes the lady said: "And now let me tell you what I want you to do. But first of all, will you please ring for coffee?"
Lionel obeyed, awaiting with some curiosity the expected newcomer. Would it be a smart maid, a mysterious man servant, or a crone with a history in every wrinkle? His doubts were speedily resolved. The door opened without noise, and there entered the most charming parlor maid the heart of man could wish. She was, of course, in a maid's livery—the black and white that is so simple, serviceable, and that can be so picturesque. Her figure was the trimmest imaginable, her eyes were a dusky brown, her hair was of jet. The last was arranged in a coiffure that a thoughtless man would have judged unstudied, but a schoolgirl of fifteen would have known its value at a glance. The features of this disturbing damsel were not faultless—the nose, for example, did not perfectly succeed, but her eyebrows looked as if they had been drawn by a painter, the mouth promised a treasury of kisses, and the complexion bespoke an air less rude than London's, for it shamed the most delicate of roses. Lionel was obliged to remind himself that the mistress had first claim on his affections.
"Clear the things, please, Mizzi," said the lady, not marking the stupor of her guest. "And then bring in coffee."
("Mizzi!" thought Lionel. "Then she is a German or Austrian. And I called myself a Teuto-phobe!")