She had turned down, but had not extinguished, the alcohol flame, and an impulsive gesture had brought the lace which hung from the sleeve of her gown in contact with it. Before she had the remotest inkling of what had happened, Ormsby was at her side, smothering the flame with his hands. It was all over in an instant. His quickness had saved her from even the slightest burn, and also from a realization of her danger until that danger was past. She leaned back in her chair feeling rather faint, while Ormsby walked over to a small cabinet, took from it a bottle and rubbed some of its contents on his hands, afterward knotting his handkerchief carelessly around the right one.
“You are burnt!” exclaimed Jane, jumping up as though to go to his assistance.
“A mere trifle,” he answered, indifferently. “It doesn’t even sting.”
She looked at him tremulously. “Your presence of mind saved my life,” she said, in a voice that was not quite steady.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he replied, rather awkwardly.
“Perhaps not,” said Jane, smiling at him with a suggestion of her old flippancy, “but it’s a great deal to me, you know. It’s the only one I have. Cats can afford to be indifferent in the face of peril until they have exhausted eight of their lives, at any rate, but the rest of us, having only one poor little life, naturally treasure it.”
Ormsby frowned. Wouldn’t she be serious in the face of death, even? Then he remembered the interrupted conversation.
“The alcohol spoiled the pretty little situation I had arranged for my book,” he said, smiling.
“Your book!” echoed Jane, staring at him.
“Yes, you know the question I was about to ask you. Your answer was rather important to me, but you can give it some other time. I advise you now to go straight home and lie down. There must have been some nervous shock.”