Stooping down, he picked up something from the floor. It was a lady’s purse,—a gorgeous affair, of crimson leather and gleaming gold. Whether it was Marjorie’s or Miss Grayling’s I could not tell. He watched me as I examined it.
‘Is it yours?’
‘No. It is not mine.’
Placing his hat and umbrella on one chair, he placed himself upon another,—very leisurely. Crossing his legs, laying his folded hands upon his knees, he sat and looked at me. I was quite conscious of his observation; but endured it in silence, being a little wishful that he should begin.
Presently he had, as I suppose, enough of looking at me, and spoke.
‘Atherton, what is the matter with you?—Have I done something to offend you too?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Your manner seems a little singular.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do.’