"Michael!"
"Well?"
"Do you mean to be insulting?"
I went over to her and coolly seated myself on the stair upon which her feet rested.
"Thusis," said I, "I'm just worried about you. That's all."
"Will you give me a single sensible reason, Michael, why you should be worried about me?"
"Yes. That fat Bulgarian keeps two big automatic guns under his pillow. And he's a physical poltroon. And you can never tell what a coward may do in a panic."
Her eyes were fastened on me all the while I was speaking but her expression remained inscrutable.
As I ended, however, it changed subtly.
"And—that is what worries you," she said in an altered voice,—a voice so winningly sweet that I scarcely recognized it for the gay, engaging, bantering voice I knew so well.