“Good! Good! My dear sir—whom I’ve never seen before—have I? By the way, please don’t think I usually pick up stray gentlemen and talk to them about my pure white soul. But you, you know, made stories about me…. I was saying: If you could only know how I loathe and hate and despise Interesting People just now! I’ve seen so much of them. They talk and talk and talk—they’re just like Kipling’s bandar-log—What is it?
“See us rise in a flung festoon
Half-way up to the jealous moon.
Don’t you wish you—
could know all about art and economics as we do?’ That’s what they say. Umph!”
Then she wriggled her fingers in the air like white butterflies, shrugged her shoulders elaborately, rose from the rail, and sat down beside him on the steps, quite matter-of-factly.
He could feel his temple-pulses beat with excitement.
She turned her pale sensitive vivid face slowly toward him.
“When did you see me—to make up the story?”
“Breakfasts. At Mrs. Cattermole’s.”
“Oh yes…. How is it you aren’t out sight-seeing? Or is it blessedly possible that you aren’t a tripper—a tourist?”
“Why, I dunno.” He hunted uneasily for the right answer. “Not exactly. I tried a stunt—coming over on a cattle-boat.”