“That was your brother, then?” he said quickly, and then stopped, looking a little foolish.

“Yes,” she answered, with a surprised glance at his face; “but you said you would answer.”

“I beg your pardon,” he replied.  “I will, of course, and I know you will believe me.  After your brother left you, you leaned your head against the pillar, and then, as if the grooving hurt your face, you put your hand between; and then—­I must apologize for my apparent impoliteness, but I promised to tell the truth;” and he smiled a little—­“then you seemed to fall fast asleep.  A mosquito lit on your nose, and woke you.  When you raised your head, your cheek was quite black from your glove; you rubbed your nose and made that black too; then you went to sleep again, and directly a curl of your hair fell over your other cheek, and woke you again, and you gave your cheek a little slap, thinking, I suppose, that the mosquito had come back:  that left the mark of your fingers, and you rubbed it a little and made it yet blacker.  Then you took your gloves off and fell asleep again; and then—­you will believe now that I am telling you ’the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ for I am risking your displeasure by telling what came next;” and he flushed up to his hair—­“I made up my mind that it was my duty to secure those gloves, and prevent thereby the possibility of such an accident in the future.  So I put my arm over the back of the seat carelessly, and when nobody was looking I picked them up and pocketed them.  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.”  Then, as he glanced at the picture, he added hastily, “I forgot that absurd inscription:  George, my brother, did that.”