CHAPTER XII
AFTER that one exclamatory lapse from Briticism, the tweed-clad man sat speechless, struggling to regain command over his shattered sensibilities. In this laudable endeavor he was severely handicapped by his vis-à-vis. She had turned the chair next his and was now seated facing him with parted lips, fluttering color, and lovely, desperate, suppliant eyes, a picture to divert the most determined attempt at concentration.
“Please! Please,” she implored, like a child, holding out her small, quivering hands to him. “Won’t you speak to me?”
“Why—er—to be sure! To be sure! What shall I say, for choice?”
“Anything. Weather. Politics. ‘Shakespeare and the musical glasses.’ Only, talk!”
“But I’m afraid—er—there’s some beastly mistake, you know.”
“Pretend it isn’t,” she urged. “Oh, help me pretend it isn’t.”
There was the sound of a clicking latch back of her, and the tension of the girl’s face relaxed a little. A second click in front indicated a similar closure of Drawing-Room B.
Darcy took a long breath. No longer under observation, she enjoyed a truce in which to lay her plans. Incidentally she did her newly wed friends the gross injustice of rejoicing that Pullman doors have no keyholes.
“Now I can explain,” said she composedly. “Pray do.” There was lively interest in his tone.