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.
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