She said nothing really; she merely asked questions; and not one of the questions, now they were put to him, did the manager find he could answer.  No doubt everything was all right.  Everybody knew about Mr. Twist, and it wasn’t likely he would choose an hotel of so high a class to stay in if his relations to the Miss Twinklers were anything but regular.  And a lady companion, he understood, was joining the party shortly; and besides, there was the house being got ready, a permanent place of residence he gathered, in which the party would settle down, and experience had taught him that genuine illicitness was never permanent.  Still, the manager himself hadn’t really cared about the Twinklers since the canary came.  He could fill the hotel very easily, and there was no need to accommodate people who spoilt carpets.  Also, the moment the least doubt or question arose among his guests, all of whom he knew and most of whom came back regularly every year, as to the social or moral status of any new arrivals, then those arrivals must go.  Miss Heap evidently had doubts.  Her standard, it is true, was the almost impossibly high one of the unmarried lady of riper years, but Mrs. Ridding, he understood, had doubts too; and once doubts started in an hotel he knew from experience that they ran through it like measles.  The time had come for him to act.

Next morning, therefore, he briskly appeared in Mr. Twist’s room as he was pulling on his boots, and cheerfully hoped he was bearing in mind what he had been told the day he took the rooms, that they were engaged for the date of the month now arrived at.

Mr. Twist paused with a boot half on.  “I’m not bearing it in mind,” he said, “because you didn’t tell me.”

“Oh yes I did, Mr. Twist,” said the manager briskly.  “It isn’t likely I’d make a mistake about that.  The rooms are taken every year for this date by the same people.  Mrs. Hart of Boston has this one, and Mr. and Mrs.—­”

Mr. Twist heard no more.  He finished lacing his boots in silence.  What he had been so much afraid of had happened:  he and the twins had got under a cloud.

The twins had been saying things.  Last night they told him they had made some friends.  He had been uneasy at that, and questioned them.  But it appeared they had talked chiefly of their Uncle Arthur.  Well, damnable as Uncle Arthur was as a man he was safe enough as a topic of conversation.  He was English.  He was known to people in America like the Delloggs and the Sacks.  But it was now clear they must have said things besides that.  Probably they had expatiated on Uncle Arthur from some point of view undesirable to American ears.  The American ear was very susceptible.  He hadn’t been born in New England without becoming aware of that.

Mr. Twist tied his bootlaces with such annoyance that he got them into knots.  He ought never to have come with the Annas to a big hotel.  Yet lodgings would have been worse.  Why hadn’t that white-haired gasbag, Mrs. Bilton—­Mr. Twist’s thoughts were sometimes unjust—­joined them sooner?  Why had that shirker Dellogg died?  He got his bootlaces hopelessly into knots.