The dull trample of a step could be heard in some distant corridor, but it died slowly to silence.
"I thought that might be him," she said, turning to the spaghetti again.
"I hope the old Indian comes," said Pennoyer, "but I don't believe he will. Seems to me he must be going to see——"
"Who?" asked Florinda.
"Well, you know, Hollanden and he usually dine together when they are both in town."
Florinda looked at Pennoyer. "I know, Penny. You must have thought I was remarkably clever not to understand all your blundering. But I don't care so much. Really I don't."
"Of course not," assented Pennoyer.
"Really I don't."
"Of course not."
"Listen!" exclaimed Grief, who was near the door. "There he comes now." Somebody approached, whistling an air from "Traviata," which rang loud and clear, and low and muffled, as the whistler wound among the intricate hallways. This air was as much a part of Hawker as his coat. The spaghetti had arrived at a critical stage. Florinda gave it her complete attention.