“Miss Howard?”
Nancy glanced up, as St. Jacques appeared in the doorway with Brock at
his side. At the farther end of the room, Barth also glanced up. The
action was wholly involuntary, however, and Barth sought to disguise
with a yawn his ill-timed manifestation of interest.
“You look as if you had something of importance to announce,” Nancy
replied, as she rose and crossed the room to the door.
“So we have. What are you going to do, this evening?”
“That isn’t an announcement; it is a question,” she suggested.
St. Jacques laughed. Nancy always enjoyed the sudden lighting of his
face. At rest, it was almost heavy in its dark, intent earnestness; at a
chance word, it could turn mirthful as the face of a child, gentle with
the sympathetic gentleness of a strong man. Just now, the rollicking
child was uppermost.
“How can I tell the difference? I am not English,” he answered.
Nancy cocked the white of one eye towards the far corner of the room.
“Neither am I,” she said demurely.
Brock’s answer was enigmatic; but Nancy held the key.
“It is always possible to be grateful to Allah,” he said, low, but not
so low as to keep the color from rising in Barth’s cheeks.
St. Jacques turned suddenly.
“Good evening, Mr. Barth. Is your ankle better?” he queried.
But Barth was as yet unable to make any distinctions in measuring out
his displeasure.
“Thank you, Mr. St. Jacques,” he answered icily. “It is almost quite
well.”
“O—oh. I am very glad,” St. Jacques responded, in such vague
uncertainty as to how great a degree of gain might be represented by the
_almost quite_ that he entirely missed the note of hostility in Barth’s
voice.
Again the white of Nancy’s eye moved towards the corner of the room, as
Brock said,—
“But you haven’t answered St. Jacques’s question, Miss Howard.”
“I beg your pardon. I am not going to do anything, unless sitting in
this room counts for something.”
“But it doesn’t.” Barth took an unexpected plunge into the conversation.
“Then what makes you do it?” Brock inquired.
His intention had been altogether hostile, for he had been irritated by
the discourtesy shown to his friend. Nevertheless, his irritation gave
place to good-tempered pity, as the young Englishman answered quietly,—
“Because there’s not so very much left that I can do. One doesn’t get
much variety in a radius of half a mile a day.”
This time, Nancy turned around.
“Doesn’t that ligament grow strong yet?” she asked, in a wave of
sympathy which swept her off her guard.
Then she blushed scarlet, for Barth was looking up at her in manifest
astonishment. How could this impetuous young woman have discovered the
fact that he owned a ligament? He had not considered it a fit subject
for conversation. Was there no limit to the unexpected workings of the
American mind?
“I didn’t know—Oh, it is better,” he answered.
Then in a flash the situation dawned upon Brock. He recalled Barth’s
unexplained illness; he remembered Nancy’s story of the Englishman and
his golden guinea. Back in the depths of his sinful brain he stored the
episode, ready to be brought out for use, whenever the time should be
ripe. And Nancy, looking into those clear gray eyes, knew that he knew;
knew, too, that it would be useless to beg for mercy for the
unsuspecting Britisher. Moreover, she was not altogether sure that she
wished to beg for mercy.
“But really, have you any plan for this evening?” St. Jacques was
urging.
Dismissing the others from her mind, Nancy smiled into the dark face
which was almost on a level with her own.
“Nothing at all.”
“That is good. There is a little opera at the Auditorium, to-night;
nothing great, but rather pretty. I saw it in Saint John, last year.
Brock and I both thought—”
“What time is it now?” Nancy asked.
“About seven.”