"Miss Ellicot! That old cat!" Sydney exclaimed indignantly.
"Miss Ellicot!" Brendon echoed. "As if it could possibly matter what
such a person thinks of you."
Anna laughed outright.
"You are positively eloquent to-night--both of you," she declared.
"But, you see, appearances are very much against me. He knew my name,
and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn't risk
claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. He was painfully
in earnest, too. I think you will find that his story will be
believed, whatever I say; and in any case, if he is going to stay on
here, I shall have to go away."
"Don't say that," Sydney begged. "We will see that he never annoys
you."
Anna shook her head.
"He is evidently a friend of Mrs. White's," she said, "and if he is
going to persist in this delusion, we cannot both remain here. I'd
rather not go," she added. "This is much the cheapest place I know of
where things are moderately clean, and I should hate rooms all by
myself. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot
down upon one from the skies."
"And such a beast of a one," Sydney remarked vigorously.
Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully.
"I wonder," he said, "is there anything we could do to help you to get
rid of him?"
"Can you think of anything?" Anna answered. "I can't! He appears to be
a most immovable person."
Brendon hesitated for a moment. He was a little embarrassed.
"There ought to be some means of getting at him," he said. "The fellow
seems to know your name, Miss Pellissier, and that you have lived in
Paris. Might we ask you if you have ever seen him, if you knew him at
all before this evening?"
She stood up suddenly, and turning her back to them, looked steadily
out of the window. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of
boarding-houses and apartments. The steps, even the pavements, were
invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat
of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for
evening dress in Montague Street. The sound of their strident voices
floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the
shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their
male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. A young man
was playing the banjo. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out
a _pot pourri_ of popular airs. Anna raised her eyes. Above the
housetops it was different. She drew a long breath. After all, why
need one look down. Always the other things remained.
"I think," she said, "that I would rather not have anything to say
about that man."