In the kitchenette, in the rear, the obliging maid gave him a lump of ice. Carrying it in one hand, aloft, as an expert waiter carries a towering tray of dishes, and whistling a gay air with great content—for his work upstairs had gone very well that morning—he sauntered out of the culinary regions, along the alley-like passageway, into the studio.
And as he started for the door which he had left ajar, a figure opened it from without and entered hurriedly—a scared, breathless little figure, bare-footed, swathed in a kimono and a shock of hair.
They stared at each other, astonished. Both blushed furiously.
"I simply can't help it," said the girl. "I was sitting on that horse waiting for Miss Davis, when a bee or a horsefly or something stung him and he began to rear and kick all around the court, and I slid off him and ran."
They both laughed. Cleland, clutching his pan of ice, said:
"I seem doomed to run into you when I shouldn't. I'm terribly sorry."
She blushed again and carefully swathed her waist in the obi.
"You didn't mean to," she said. "It was rather startling, though."
"It was, indeed. And now we're having another unconventional party. Shall I leave this ice here and go out and quiet the nag?"
"He'll surely kick you."