"Very good, little gentleman!" said Mr. Kinosling, and being somewhat
chilled, placed the hat firmly upon his head, pulling it down as far
as it would go. It had a pleasant warmth, which he noticed at once. The
next instant, he noticed something else, a peculiar sensation of the
scalp--a sensation which he was quite unable to define. He lifted his
hand to take the hat off, and entered upon a strange experience: his hat
seemed to have decided to remain where it was.
"Do you like Tennyson as much as Longfellow, Mr. Kinosling?" inquired
Margaret.
"I--ah--I cannot say," he returned absently. "I--ah--each has his
own--ugh! flavour and savour, each his--ah--ah----"
Struck by a strangeness in his tone, she peered at him curiously through
the dusk. His outlines were indistinct, but she made out that his arms
were, uplifted in a singular gesture. He seemed to be wrenching at his
head.
"Is--is anything the matter?" she asked anxiously. "Mr. Kinosling, are
you ill?"
"Not at--ugh!--all," he replied, in the same odd tone. "I--ah--I
believe--UGH!"
He dropped his hands from his hat, and rose. His manner was
slightly agitated. "I fear I may have taken a trifling--ah--cold.
I should--ah--perhaps be--ah--better at home. I will--ah--say
good-night."
At the steps, he instinctively lifted his hand to remove his hat,
but did not do so, and, saying "Goodnight," again in a frigid voice,
departed with visible stiffness from that house, to return no more.
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