Naturally, this was too much for me to comprehend and adjust myself to in a split-second, and I was still groping like a man stunned when she continued:
“Yes, the cap was my own, and I had borrowed Bob’s tuxedo and come down to get that book; it had a fascination for me, and I must say I was surprised”—with a careful inclination of the head toward the corridor—“that he hadn’t kept it under lock and key.”
“Quite so.”
“So you see why I didn’t come out even when Millicent was wandering again. I had gone back to my room the way I’d come—that was by the outer stairs and through one of the french windows I’d undone the catch of after Blenkinson had gone the rounds—and I was gobbling up the book, still in borrowed plumage, when the commotion began. I couldn’t have appeared without starting more fuss than ever; I suppose I shouldn’t have much more than a rag of reputation left. They wouldn’t be so surprised in America at a girl’s dressing like a man—the movies have helped a lot there.”
“Well, you needn’t take the appalling risk again,” I promised her. “If you should wish to gorge yourself clandestinely on the pages of Sylvan Armitage, you may have my copy in perfect secrecy.”
“Oh, your copy came? Don’t get up, please, and please excuse me if I don’t wait. Your breakfast will all get cold if I keep you talking.”
“Not at all. Yes, my copy came through.”
She had arisen and walked to the door. I had noticed a small campstool folded and leaning against the wall, and now was surprised to see her pick it up and tuck it beneath her arm.
“Are you taking that?”
She held it so that it opened, showing its green canvas seat. “Yes, aren’t you in favour of it?”