The furniture was rough-hewn and built for use, not ornamentation; the
walls were hung with English prints, antlers, mementoes of the hunt
and the field of sport; the floor was covered with skins and great
"carpet rag" rugs. The whole aspect was so distinctly mannish that her
heart fluttered ridiculously in its loneliness. Her cogitations were
running seriously toward riot when he came hurriedly down the hall and
into her presence.
"She'll be down presently. In fact, so will the cook and the
housemaid. Gad, Miss Drake, they were so afraid of the storm that all
of them piled into Mrs. Ulrich's room. I wonder at your courage in
facing the symptoms outdoors. Now, I'll fix you a drink. Take off your
hat--be comfortable. Cigarette? Good! Here's my sideboard. See? It's a
nuisance, this having only one arm in commission; affects my style as
a barkeep. Don't stir; I'll be able--"
"Let me help you. I mean, please don't go to so much trouble. Really
I want nothing but a place to sleep to-night. This couch will
do--honestly. And some one to call me at daybreak, so that I may be
on my way." He looked at her and laughed quizzically. "Oh, I'm in
earnest, Mr. Shaw. I wouldn't have stopped here if it hadn't been for
the storm."
"Come, now, Miss Drake, you spoil the fairy tale. You _did_ intend to
come here. It was the only place for you to go--and I'm glad of it. My
only regret is that the house isn't filled with chaperons."
"Why?" she demanded with a guilty start.
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