“How you do get at things, Miss Howard! The fact is, I tipped the girl,
one night. It seemed to me then merely the usual thing to do. Since
then, I haven’t been so sure. She was quite a lady, and—”
Nancy interrupted him ruthlessly.
“How did she take it?” she demanded.
“As she would have taken a blow on the cheek. I meant it well. I had
given her a bad day of it, and I thought it was only decent to make up
for it. I wish now I hadn’t; but I couldn’t well ask for the money
again, though I knew from the way her heels hit the floor that she was
wishing she could throw it back at me. Do you know,” Mr. Cecil Barth
added thoughtfully; “that I sometimes think our English ways aren’t
always understood over here.”
And, in that instant, Nancy forgave the existence of the golden guinea,
still reposing among her superfluous hairpins.
“Not always,” she assented. “Still, if you were to tell your Nancy
Howard what you have just told me, I think she would understand.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t do that,” Barth protested.
“I don’t see why not. Very likely she is no more formidable than I am.
Anyway, I advise you to try.”
As she stood smiling down at him, there came a click, and the dusky
library was flooded with the blaze from a dozen electric bulbs. They
both winced at the unexpected glare; then Nancy’s eyes and Barth’s
glasses met in a steady gaze. His face was earnest; hers merry and
altogether winsome. Suddenly she held out her hand.
“Good by, Mr. Barth,” she said kindly. “I am glad you have told me about
this.”
He rose to his feet.
“You are going? May I walk back with you?”
“Thank you so much for offering. It would be a pleasure; but Mr. Brock
is waiting outside to take me for a turn on the terrace.”
And, the next instant, Barth was left alone with the librarian.