Between Cutty's heart and his throat there was very little space at that
moment for the propelment of sound. Kitty Conover had innocently--he
understood that almost immediately and recovered his mental
balance--Kitty had innocently thrown a bomb at his feet. It did not
matter that it was a dud. The result was the same. For a second, then,
all the terror, all the astounding suspension of thought and action
attending the arrival of a shell on the battlefield were his. As
an aftermath he would have liked very much to sit down. Instead,
maintaining the mock gravity of his expression, he offered his arm,
which Kitty accepted, still the Grand Duchess of Gerolstein. Pompously
they marched into the dining room. But as Kitty saw Hawksley she dropped
the air confusedly, and hesitated. "Good gracious!" she whispered.
"What's the matter?" Cutty whispered in turn.
"My clothes!"
"What's the matter with 'em?"
"I slept in them!"
If that wasn't like a woman! It did not matter how she might look to
an old codger, aetat. fifty-two; he didn't count. But a handsome
young chap, now, in white flannels and sport shirt, his head bound
picturesquely-"Don't let that bother you," he said. "Those duds of his are mine."
Still, Cutty was grateful for this little diversion. As he drew back
Kitty's chair he was wholly himself again. At once he dictated the trend
of the conversation, moved it whither he willed, into strange channels,
gave them all a glimpse of his amazing versatility, with vivid shafts of
humour to light up corners.
Kuroki, who had travelled far with his master these ten years, sometimes
paused in his rounds to nod affirmatively.
Hawksley listened intently, wondering a bit. What was the dear old
beggar's idea, throwing such fireworks round at breakfast? He stole a
glance at Kitty to see how she was taking it--and caught her stealing a
glance at him. Instantly both switched back to Cutty. Shortly the little
comedy was repeated because neither could resist the invisible force of
some half-conscious inquiry. Third time, they smiled unembarrassedly.
Mind you, they were both hanging upon Cutty's words; only their eyes
were like little children at church, restless. It was spring.
Without being exactly conscious of what he was doing, Hawksley began
to dress Kitty--that is, he visualized her in ball gowns, in sports, in
furs. He put her on horses, in opera boxes, in limousines. But in none
of these pictures could he hold her; she insisted upon returning to her
kitchen to fry bacon and eggs.