“How can I thank you!” she whispered.

“What for?” asked Carl, with laconic gloom.

“For having saved my darling!” said Mrs Ebag.  And there was passion in her voice.

“Oh!” said Carl.  “It was nothing!”

“Nothing?” Mrs Ebag repeated after him, with melting eyes, as if to imply that, instead of being nothing, it was everything; as if to imply that his deed must rank hereafter with the most splendid deeds of antiquity; as if to imply that the whole affair was beyond words to utter or gratitude to repay.

And in fact Carl himself was moved.  You cannot fall from the roof of a two-story house into a very high-class rhododendron bush, carrying a prize cat in your arms, without being a bit shaken.  And Carl was a bit shaken, not merely physically, but morally and spiritually.  He could not deny to himself that he had after all done something rather wondrous, which ought to be celebrated in sounding verse.  He felt that he was in an atmosphere far removed from the commonplace.

He dripped steadily on to the carpet.

“You know how dear my cat was to me,” proceeded Mrs Ebag.  “And you risked your life to spare me the pain of his suffering, perhaps his death.  How thankful I am that I insisted on having those rhododendrons planted just where they are—­fifteen years ago!  I never anticipated—­”

She stopped.  Tears came into her dowager eyes.  It was obvious that she worshipped him.  She was so absorbed in his heroism that she had no thought even for his dampness.  As Carl’s eyes met hers she seemed to him to grow younger.  And there came into his mind all the rumour that had vaguely reached him coupling their names together; and also his early dreams of love and passion and a marriage that would be one long honeymoon.  And he saw how absurd had been those early dreams.  He saw that the best chance of a felicitous marriage lay in a union of mature and serious persons, animated by grave interests and lofty ideals.  Yes, she was older than he.  But not much, not much!  Not more than—­how many years?  And he remembered surprising her rapt glance that very evening as she watched him playing the piano.  What had romance to do with age?  Romance could occur at any age.  It was occurring now.  Her soft eyes, her portly form, exuded romance.  And had not the renowned Beaconsfield espoused a lady appreciably older than himself, and did not those espousals achieve the ideal of bliss?  In the act of saving the cat he had not been definitely aware that it was so particularly the cat of the household.  But now, influenced by her attitude and her shining reverence, he actually did begin to persuade himself that an uncontrollable instinctive desire to please her and win her for his own had moved him to undertake the perilous passage of the sloping roof.

In short, the idle chatter of the town was about to be justified.  In another moment he might have dripped into her generous arms ... had not Miss Ebag swept into the drawing-room!