"There's a perfectly good inn here," she wrote,—"for of course, under the circumstances, you would scarcely have the impudence to expect the hospitality of my own roof. But if you are determined to have a final 'No' for your answer, I am entirely competent to give it to you by word of mouth—"
"And such a distractingly lovely mouth," sighed Ogilvy, perusing the letter in his studio. He whistled a slow waltz, thoughtfully, and as slowly and solemnly kept step to it, turning round and round, buried in deepest reflection. He had a habit of doing this when profoundly perplexed.
Annan discovered him waltzing mournfully all by himself:
"What's up?" he inquired cheerfully.
"It's all up, I suppose."
"With you and your countess?"
"Yes, Harry."
"Rot! Why don't you go and talk to her?"
"Because if I remain invisible she might possibly forget my face. I stand a better chance by letter, Harry."
"Now you're not bad-looking," insisted Annan, kindly. "And besides, a man's face doesn't count with a girl. Half of 'em are neurotics, anyway, and they adore the bizarre—"