“Do I understand—”
“I don’t see,” interrupted the Bonnie Lassie sweetly, “how you could. I haven’t told you. And the rest are bound to secrecy. But don’t be unduly alarmed at anything queer you may see in Our Square within the next few days.”
Only by virtue of that warning was I able to command the emotions aroused by an encounter with Cyrus the Gaunt some evenings later. He was hurrying across the park space in the furtive manner of one going to a shameful rendezvous, and upon my hailing him he at first essayed to sheer off. When he saw who it was he came up with a rather swaggering and nonchalant effect. I may observe here that nobody has a monopoly of nonchalance in this world.
“Good-evening, Cyrus,” I said.
“Good-evening, Dominie.”
“Beautiful weather we’re having.”
“Couldn’t be finer.”
“Do you think it will hold?”
“The paper says rain to-morrow.”
“Why is the tip of your nose painted green?”