“You may well say ‘but’!  I did not mean to intrude upon your private room—­but I had to run away from Mr. Greenbank—­he was so horrid—­” here she gasped a little for breath—­“and I happened to see something like a door ajar in the Gainsborough room, so I fled through it, and it fastened after me with a snap—­I could not open it again—­and it was pitch dark in that dreadful passage and not a scrap of air—­I felt suffocated, and I pushed on anywhere—­and something gave way and I fell in here—­that’s all——­”

She rattled this out without a stop, and then stared at Michael with her big, childish eyes, but did not attempt to rise from the floor.

He walked toward her and held out his hand, and with ceremonious and ironical politeness, he began: 

“May I not help you—­I could offer you a chair——­”

She interrupted him while she struggled up, refusing his proffered hand.

“I’ve knocked myself against your nasty table—­why do you have it in that place!”

Michael sat down upon the edge of it, and went on in his ironical tone: 

“Had I known I was to have the honor of this visit, I should certainly have had it moved.”

“There is no use being sarcastic,” the girl said, almost crying now.  “It hurts very much, and—­and—­I want to go home.”

Mr. Arranstoun pushed a comfortable monster seat toward her, and said more sympathetically: 

“I am very sorry—­but where is home?”

The girl sank into the chair, and smoothed out her pink cotton frock; the skimpy skirt (not as narrow as in these days, but still short and spare!) showed a perfect pair of feet and ankles.

“She’s American, of course, then,” Michael said to himself, observing these, “and quite pretty if that smudge of grime was off her face.”

She was looking at him now with her large, innocent eyes, which contained no shadow of gene over the unusual situation, and then she answered quite simply: 

“I haven’t a home, you know—­I’m just staying at the Inn with Uncle Mortimer and Aunt Jemima and—­and—­Mr. Greenbank—­and we are tourists, I suppose, and were looking at the pictures—­when—­when I had to run away.”

Michael felt a little piqued with curiosity; she was a diversion after his perplexing, irritating meditations.

“It would be so interesting to hear why you ran away—­the whole story?” he suggested.

The girl turned her head and looked out of the window, showing a dear little baby profile, and masses of light brown hair rolled up anyhow at the back.  She did not look older than seventeen at the outside, and was peculiarly childish and slender for that.

“But I should have to tell you from the beginning, and it is so long—­and you are a stranger.”

Michael drew another chair nearer to her, and sat down, while his manner took on a note of grave, elderly concern, which rather belied the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.