and regilding the gold of the choice bindings, caressing lovingly the busts and statuettes surmounting the book-shelves, and twinkling upon the scantily-covered crown of Henry Leroux. The door bell rang.
Leroux, heedless of external matters, pursued his work. But the door bell rang again and continued to ring.
“Soames! Soames!” Leroux raised his voice irascibly, continuing to write the while. “Where the devil are you! Can’t you hear the door bell?”
Soames did not reveal himself; and to the ringing of the bell was added the unmistakable rattling of a letter-box.
“Soames!” Leroux put down his pen and stood up. “Damn it! he’s out! I have no memory!”
He retied the girdle of his dressing-gown, which had become unfastened, and opened the study door. Opposite, across the entrance lobby, was the outer door; and in the light from the lobby lamp he perceived two laughing eyes peering in under the upraised flap of the letter-box. The ringing ceased.
“Are you very angry with me for interrupting you?” cried a girl’s voice.
“My dear Miss Cumberly!” said Leroux without irritation; “on the contrary—er—I am delighted to see you—or rather to hear you. There is nobody at home, you know.”…
“I do know,” replied the girl firmly, “and I know something else, also. Father assures me that
