“How you do catch a fellow up!” said he; admiringly. “We both found out you'd gone out for a walk alone.”
“How did you find it out?”
“Well,” said Bob, hesitating, “we asked the colored doorkeeper.”
“Mr. Worthington,” said Cynthia, with an indignation that made him quail, “do you think it right to ask a doorkeeper to spy on my movements?”
“I'm sorry, Cynthia,” he gasped, “I—I didn't think of it that way—and he won't tell. Desperate cases require desperate remedies, you know.”
But Cynthia was not appeased.
“If you wanted to see me,” she said, “why didn't you send your card to my room, and I would have come to the parlor.”
“But I did send a note, and waited around all day.”
How was she to tell him that it was to the tone of the note she objected—to the hint of a clandestine meeting? She turned the light of her eyes full upon him.
“Would you have been content to see me in the parlor?” she asked. “Did you mean to see me there?”