“Nothing,” she said hurriedly. “But it's the job for the job's sake with you now, isn't it?”
“I like the feel of it, if that's what you mean. The feel of being competent to hold it down.”
She nodded with content in her eyes. But he was troubled.
“You had something in mind—” he began, when another partner claimed her, while he was dragged off to assist in an improvised glee-club.
His time was up all too soon, and without chance of a further word from her, other than a formal farewell. In the little rear hallway whither he had made his way through his protesting fellow-revelers, he reached up for his coat, and felt something lightly brush the top of his head. He looked up. It was a sprig of mistletoe. At the same moment two firm hands closed over his eyes, and light, swift lips just grazed his cheek.
Cyrus the Gaunt fell a-trembling. He turned slowly, and found himself confronting a total stranger. The stranger had gray hair and a tired face lighted by crinkly eyes. “Oh!” said Cyrus the Gaunt with an irrepressible bitterness of disappointment.
“Frankness,” observed his salutant, “may or may not be a compliment to the object of it.” Cyrus remained mute. “Who did you hope it was?” Silence seemed still the best policy. “If you are offended”—the eyes twinkled with added keenness—“I will apologize honorably.”
“Let me do it for you,” said Cyrus the Gaunt politely, and kissed the unknown square upon the lips.
She drew back. “Well!” she began; then she laughed. “The entente cordiale having been established, what are you doing here, Cyrus Staten?”
He gasped and gaped. “Do I know you?”