"
"We must have started before you 'phoned."
"Well, I'm sorry. You wanted two rooms. But the best we can do for you and
Mrs. Hilliard is one."
"Great Scot, you don't know what you're talking about!" gasped Nick. "This
is Mrs. May."
"Beg your pardon, Mr. May. I thought you said your name was Hilliard."
"It is. But hers isn't. We--I--I'm only her guide," stammered Nick, so
deeply embarrassed for Angela's sake that for the moment he lost his
presence of mind. "It's the last straw," he thought. "She'll never forgive
me." And he dared not look to see how she had taken the blow, until she
surprised him by laughing. She was blushing a little, too.
"Do you remember the laundry in New Orleans?" she asked. "I'm afraid it
will have to be the laundry for you again, or else a refrigerator."
Nick was of opinion that the refrigerator would better suit the state of
his complexion, which needed cooling, but his relief at seeing Angela
amused, not offended, was too great for words. He mumbled something vague
about any cupboard or cellar being good enough, and began to recover
himself; but his confusion had been contagious. The hotel manager caught
the disease, and hoped Mrs. Willard would excuse him--no, he meant Mrs.
Day--no, really he began to be afraid that he didn't remember rightly
_what_ he meant! He'd got Mrs.
Pages:
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355