everybody has gone to roost.”
“Well, we must try it. I wouldn't think of losing the poor man his job. Tell him to take the car down to the ground-floor, and then we'll just sit and amuse ourselves till something happens. We've lots to talk about. We can tell each other the story of our lives.”
Jules, cheered by his victims' kindly forbearance, lowered the car to the ground floor, where, after a glance of infinite longing at the keys on the distant desk, the sort of glance which Moses must have cast at the Promised Land from the summit of Mount Pisgah, he sagged down in a heap and resumed his slumbers. Sally settled herself as comfortably as possible in her corner.
“You'd better smoke,” she said. “It will be something to do.”
“Thanks awfully.”
“And now,” said Sally, “tell me why Scrymgeour fired you.”
Little by little, under the stimulating influence of this nocturnal adventure, the red-haired young man had lost that shy confusion which had rendered him so ill at ease when he had encountered Sally in the hall of the hotel; but at this question embarrassment gripped him once more. Another of those comprehensive blushes of his raced over his face, and he stammered.
“I say, I'm glad... I'm fearfully sorry about that, you know!”
“About Scrymgeour?”
“You know what I mean. I mean, about making such a most ghastly ass of myself this morning. I... I never dreamed you understood English.”
“Why, I didn't object. I thought you were very nice and complimentary. Of course, I don't know how many girls you've seen in your life, but...”
“No, I say, don't! It makes me feel such a chump.”
“And I'm sorry about my mouth. It is wide. But I know you're a fair-minded man and realize that it isn't my fault.”
“Don't rub it in,” pleaded the young man. “As a matter of fact, if you want to know, I think your mouth is absolutely perfect. I think,” he proceeded, a little feverishly, “that you are the
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