"
"Oh, _don't_ be ashamed of imagination," she demanded, stamping
her foot, while her voice fluttered, low and beautifully
controlled, through half a dozen notes. "Tell me the rest of
your story about me."
She was sitting on the rail above him now. As he spoke she
cupped her chin with the palm of her delicate hand and observed
him curiously.
"Oh, nothing much more. You were a countess--"
"Please! Not just `were.' Please, sir, mayn't I be a countess now?"
"Oh yes, of course you are!" he cried, delight submerging
timidity. "And your father was sick with somepun' mysterious,
and all the docs shook their heads and said `Gee! we dunno what
it is,' and so you sneaked down to the treasure-chamber--you
see, your dad--your father, I should say--he was a cranky old
Frenchman--just in the story, you know. He didn't think you
could do anything yourself about him being mysteriously sick.
So one night you--"
"Oh, was it dark? Very _very_ dark? And silent? And my
footsteps rang on the hollow flagstones? And I swiped the gold
and went forth into the night?"
"Yes, _yes!_ That's it.
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