Page:The City of Masks (1918).djvu/174

162 Parvis, uncomfortably. "Seems to me she walks properly enough. What's the matter with her— There, she's gone! I can't see what—"

"You would think the hussy imagines herself to be the Queen of England," sputtered Mrs. Smith-Parvis angrily. "I've never seen such airs."

The object of her derision mounted the stairs and entered her bed-chamber on the fourth floor. Her steamer-trunk and her bags were nowhere in sight. A wry little smile trembled on her lips.

"Must you be going?" she said to herself, whimsically, as she adjusted her hat in front of the mirror.

There was no one to say good-bye to her, except Peasley, the footman. He opened the big front door for her, and she passed out into the foggy March night. A fine mist blew upon her hot face.

"Good-bye, Miss," said Peasley, following her to the top of the steps.

"Good-bye, Peasley. Thank you for taking down my things."

"You'll find 'em in the taxi," said he. He peered hard ahead and sniffed. "A bit thick, ain't it? Reminds one of London, Miss." He referred to the fog.

At the bottom of the steps she encountered the irrepressible and somewhat jubilant scion of the house. His soft hat was pulled well down over his eyes, and the collar of his overcoat was turned up about his ears. He promptly accosted her, his voice lowered to an eager, confident undertone.

"Don't cry, little girl," he said. "It isn't going to be bad at all. I— Oh, I say, now, listen to me!"

She tried to pass, but he placed himself directly in