The Author closed the door and leaned against it.  His piercing glance jumped from Nicholas Jelnik’s face to mine, with a prolonged and savage scrutiny.  No detail of my appearance escaped him—­my reddened eyelids, my pallor, my nervousness, my dishevelment.  His eyes narrowed, his jaw hardened.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, roughly.  “Come!  At least one may hope for the truth from you!”

Mr. Jelnik gave him a level look.  There was that in it which brought an angry red to The Author’s thin face.

“Let me answer for her:  just at present Miss Smith is getting ready to go home.”

The Author struggled to keep his rising temper in hand.

“I asked you a plain question, Miss Smith!” His peremptory tone jangled my strained nerves.

“Mr. Jelnik has answered you:  I am getting ready to go home.”

The Author stamped.

“Don’t talk nonsense!  Again I ask you, what are you doing here?  Have you lost your senses?  Why have you been weeping?  It is plain that you have been weeping.  Miss Smith, why do I find you here—­alone?”

“I do not like your manner of questioning me,” I said, indignantly.

“My dear fellow,” protested Mr. Jelnik, “you are behaving unmannerly, you know.  The simple truth is, I was so fortunate as to be of assistance to Miss Smith.  She had an unpleasant experience—­fell and gave her head such a nasty bump, that it made her faint.  I’m afraid I splashed her a bit when I was trying to revive her.  I thought best to bring her here and give her a stimulant.  She didn’t want to stagger home and alarm the whole household unnecessarily.”

“Is this true?” The Author asked me, rudely.

“You heard what Mr. Jelnik said!” I flamed.

“One allows somewhat more license to genius than might be accorded ordinary mortals; but really, you know, there are limits,” Mr. Jelnik reminded him.  “You’re beginning to be rather a nuisance.  It’s unfortunate to have to remind a man, in one’s own house, that he’s a nuisance.”

“I think you are, too!” I told The Author—­“bursting into people’s houses like an East-Side policeman, asking outrageous questions in an outrageous manner, and then questioning the answers one is patient enough to give you!  What right have you got to ask any questions?”

“I’d rather like to know that, myself,” put in Mr. Jelnik.

The Author straightened his shoulders, drew himself up to his full height, and folded his arms.  He is an impressively tall man.

“Should you?” said he, quietly.  “Well, I’ll tell you—­the right of an honest man to protect the woman he happens to want to marry.”

I sat down, suddenly.  I’m afraid my eyes popped, and I know my mouth fell open.  I had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing Mr. Nicholas Jelnik’s eyes and mouth open, too.  After an astounded moment: 

“Isn’t this rather sudden?” wondered Mr. Jelnik.  “Who’d suspect this fellow of volcanic possibilities?”