The Man and the Moment | Page 5

which compose the tourists of all countries, and which no nation feels proud to own. He had seen hundreds of such, and turned away indifferently.
"They only come here twice a week, and it has been allowed for such ages--they are generally quiet, and fortunately their perambulations close at the end of the gallery. They don't intrude upon my own suite. They get to the chapel by the outside door."
Henry crossed the room and went on to the balcony.
"Mrs. Hatfield will alter all that," he laughed, as he disappeared from view.
Michael flashed a rageful glance at his back, and then flung himself into his great armchair again, and pulled the wrinkled mass, which called itself a prize bulldog, on to his lap.
"I believe he's right and we are caught, Binko. If we fled to the Rocky Mountains, she would track us. If we stay and face it, she'll make an almighty scandal and force us to marry her. What in the devil's name are we to do----!"
Binko licked his master's hands, and made noises, so full of gurgling, slobbering sympathy, no heart could have remained uncomforted. Who knows! His canine common sense may have telepathically transmitted a thought, for Michael suddenly plopped him on the floor, and stalked toward the fireplace to ring the bell, while he exclaimed, as though answering a suggestion. "Yes, we'll send for old Bessie--that's the only way."
But before he could reach his goal, the picture of Mary, Queen of Scots, landing fell forward with a crash, and through the aperture of a secret door which it concealed, there tumbled a very young and pretty girl right into the room.
CHAPTER II
Mr. Arranstoun was extremely startled and annoyed, too, and before he took in the situation, he had exclaimed, while Binko gave an ominous growl of displeasure:
"Confound it--who is that! These are private rooms!" Then, seeing it was a girl on the floor, he said in another voice: "Quiet, Binko--" and the dog retired to his own basket under a distant table. "Oh, I beg your pardon--but----"
The creature on the floor blinked at Michael with large, round, violet eyes, but did not move, while she answered aggrievedly--with a very faint accent, whether a little French or a little American, or a little of both, he was not sure, only that it had something attractive about it.
"You may well say 'but'! I did not mean to intrude upon your private room--but I had to run away from Mr. Greenbank--he was so horrid--" here she gasped a little for breath--"and I happened to see something like a door ajar in the Gainsborough room, so I fled through it, and it fastened after me with a snap--I could not open it again--and it was pitch dark in that dreadful passage and not a scrap of air--I felt suffocated, and I pushed on anywhere--and something gave way and I fell in here--that's all----"
She rattled this out without a stop, and then stared at Michael with her big, childish eyes, but did not attempt to rise from the floor.
He walked toward her and held out his hand, and with ceremonious and ironical politeness, he began:
"May I not help you--I could offer you a chair----"
She interrupted him while she struggled up, refusing his proffered hand.
"I've knocked myself against your nasty table--why do you have it in that place!"
Michael sat down upon the edge of it, and went on in his ironical tone:
"Had I known I was to have the honor of this visit, I should certainly have had it moved."
"There is no use being sarcastic," the girl said, almost crying now. "It hurts very much, and--and--I want to go home."
Mr. Arranstoun pushed a comfortable monster seat toward her, and said more sympathetically:
"I am very sorry--but where is home?"
The girl sank into the chair, and smoothed out her pink cotton frock; the skimpy skirt (not as narrow as in these days, but still short and spare!) showed a perfect pair of feet and ankles.
"She's American, of course, then," Michael said to himself, observing these, "and quite pretty if that smudge of grime was off her face."
She was looking at him now with her large, innocent eyes, which contained no shadow of g��ne over the unusual situation, and then she answered quite simply:
"I haven't a home, you know--I'm just staying at the Inn with Uncle Mortimer and Aunt Jemima and--and--Mr. Greenbank--and we are tourists, I suppose, and were looking at the pictures--when--when I had to run away."
Michael felt a little piqued with curiosity; she was a diversion after his perplexing, irritating meditations.
"It would be so interesting to hear why you ran away--the whole story?" he suggested.
The girl turned her head and looked out of the window, showing a dear little baby profile, and masses of light brown hair rolled up anyhow at the back. She did