“There’s a room next door my mother and sister use for their boudoir,” he said graciously.  “It’s full of long mirrors, and you can have all the electric light you want, but the furniture’s covered up.  The dining-room and my den are the only places that are shipshape, I’m afraid.”

Logan walked out into the hall and threw open one of the doors that opened into it.  “Here you are!” he announced, switching on a blaze of electric light that showed a small room shrouded in white covers.  “The first thing you see is a life-size picture of yourself.  I guess that’s what you want.”

“You have guessed right.  You deserve a prize,” Win answered.

In the lighted boudoir a mirror faced the door.

“Will you give me a few minutes to myself?” she asked.  “I may just as well confess that this surprise of yours has—­gone to my head a little, as your champagne probably will—­when I drink it.  The hot weather has been taking it out of me horribly, and I’m not very strong.  If I may sit still for five minutes and shut my eyes and think, why—­I’m sure I shall be a more amusing guest at supper.”

Logan, who had touched the electric-light switch inside the door, stood on the threshold, barring the way.  Win did not try to push past him, nor did she show any impatience, nor even eagerness.  He stared her in the eyes as if to ask:  “What trick do you hope to play, I wonder?  Do you think I’m such a blamed idiot as to leave a way out open after all the trouble and expense I’ve put myself to on your account?”

But being perfectly sure that there was no way out, no trick in her power seemed worth worrying about—­unless she had some melodramatic little bottle of poison concealed about her which she would drain and die, like the heroine of an old-fashioned play.  He was certain that the brave, vital young creature who had seized his fancy would do nothing of the kind, however, and he felt that it was safe to humour her.

“You can even go to sleep on the sofa, if you like, provided you’ll promise to dream of me,” he said, “and if you’ll let me come and wake you up.  Oh, I’ve caught you looking at the keyhole!  There’s no key in it, you see, for me to lock you in—­or for you to lock me out.”

“Neither of us would be so medieval, would we?” she laughed.  “That would be a silly way to begin the evening.  Now that I am here I am going to make the very, very best of it, I promise you!”

“That’s right!  You’re the girl of my heart!” said Logan, and, stepping away from the door, let her walk into the lighted boudoir.

Gently and slowly, almost coquettishly, she shut him out, smiling into his face until the oak panels had closed between him and her.

CHAPTER XXI

THE TELEPHONE

The boudoir was stuffy and smelled of moth powder With its ivory-white walls and masses of sheeting it looked crudely bright in the glare of electricity switched on by Logan.  A glance at the closed bay window showed that outside the glass was a screen of unpainted wood.  There was no door save that through which Win had just entered.