"When I say saunter, I mean it, Michael. Just stroll around--in my
vicinity--describing a few leisurely circles--so that I'll not notice
your approach. Couldn't you do that--and keep within sight?"
"I'll try."
Suddenly her eyes grew brilliant and she smothered a laugh with her
hands. Then, as both palms clung flat to her laughing lips she
deliberately kissed them and, with a pretty gesture, threw the reckless
salute at me.
"Your humble servant, Don Michael!" she whispered, "your housekeeper
salutes you--and runs!"
Which she did, vanishing like a flash of sunlight in the dusky corridor.
I dropped one hand on the newel-post quite unbalanced by a complexity of
emotions which no experience in life had so far taught me to analyze and
catalogue.
"It's probably love," said I to myself, calmly enough. "And what the
devil am I to do about it?"
There was no answer. Reason, instinct, emotion, appeared to be
paralyzed.
So I climbed the stairs in a blind, mechanical sort of way, and went
into Smith's room.
"Were you ever in love?" I asked wearily.
He laid aside his novel, unhooked the pipe from his mouth, and
considered me very gravely.
"Yes," he said, "I've been in love."
"What did you do about it?"
"The wrong thing, I fancy."
"What was that, Smith?"
"I took the matter too seriously."
"Shouldn't one?"
"Never!"