Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. “Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man. She was tempted to touch him in the car as they drove to the empty house, but she refrained for fear of causing a car accident. “I just came to you and put myself in your hands. The door was fastened by a catch and a latch with an inside key, to which at night a chain and two bolts were added. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. I love him as a brother.
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