Then she lost her temper entirely.
"You cheat," she cried furiously. "Oh, I should have known better than to trust you."
"Certainly you should," replied the poet, politely agreeing with the irate damsel. "I was surprised myself at the simplicity of your behavior."
"However," she continued, "I shall never believe you again."
"Never?"
"Never, Mr. Moore, and I am very angry with you."
"Really?" asked he. "Why, whoever would have suspected it, Bessie?"
"Luckily I can get it without your assistance," she went on. "You are not half so smart as you imagine."
"Of course not," observed Moore, watching her as she stood on tiptoe and vainly endeavored to reach the cause of all the trouble. "Take care, Bessie, or you 'll tear something else."
The girl was baffled only for the moment, for directly beneath the candelabra stood the desk at which she had been writing a few moments before. As the top, which when open formed the writing table, was let down, it was an easy thing for her to step up on it from the seat of a chair, and then from there to the top of the desk. This was what Bessie did as quickly as was possible, for she was considerably handicapped in her climbing by her long train.