It was not I who
laughed, but my brother, who did not notice your face--after you
had blackened it, that is--until he rose to go, when he laughed
involuntarily, and I collared him and took him off. Now you know all
about it, and I await my sentence. Can you forgive me for stealing
your gloves? The motive at least was good."
Marjory's face had cleared as this highly circumstantial narrative
progressed, and when it was finished she looked up smiling. "Yes," she
said, "I quite forgive you: the motive is everything. But do please
tell me, were you really so interested in what that little gorilla
said as you seemed to be? You were taking notes, you know--I saw that
before I went to sleep. Now what was there that was worth making a
note of? I am sure I heard nothing."
"Would you like to see my notes?" he asked, drawing a little book from
his waistcoat pocket.
"Yes, if they are not long," she answered doubtfully; "but Jack will
tell you how stupid I am on all such subjects as that."
He placed the book in her hand, open, and she saw a clever sketch
of herself and the pillar: underneath was written, "Mademoiselle
Stylites."
"Did you draw that?" she asked, smiling in spite of herself.
"Yes," he replied, answering her smile. "I am fond of sketching from
nature.
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