What's wrong,
Miss Falconer? You don't object to my presence surely? If you go on
freezing me like this, I shall think there's something about my turning
up here that worries you--upon my soul I shall!"
She should by rights have been trembling, but her eyes blazed at me
disdainfully. I felt almost like a caitiff, whatever that may be.
"It doesn't worry me," she denied, with the same crisp iciness, "but it
does surprise me. Will you tell me, please, what you are doing here?"
Should I return, "And you?" in a voice of obvious meaning? Should I take
a leaf from the book of my hostess and say: "I'm a bit of an artist.
I've sketched all over Europe, and I've come to have a go at the old
mill that so many fellows try?" Such a claim would just match the
assumption of her costume. But no.
"The fact is," I said serenely, "I came straight from the rue
St. Dominique to keep the appointment you forgot."
The announcement, it was plain, exasperated her, for slightly, but
undeniably, she stamped one arched, slender, attractively shod foot.
"Mr. Bayne," she demanded, "are you a secret-service agent?"
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, startled.
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