But the instant that the
captain had recognized a bunch of white marguerites in her belt he
had, without knowing why, been moved to conceal his identity.
"He's afraid," whispered Blix. "Positively, I believe he's
afraid. How absolutely stupid men are!"
But meanwhile, K. D. B., the looked-for, the planned-for and
intrigued-for; the object of so much diplomacy, such delicate
manoeuvring; the pivot upon which all plans were to turn, the
storm-centre round which so many conflicting currents revolved,
and for whose benefit the peace of mind of the red-headed man had
been forever broken up--had entered the room.
"Why, she's PRETTY!" was Blix's first smothered exclamation, as if
she had expected a harridan.
K. D. B. looked like a servant-girl of the better sort, and was
really very neatly dressed. She was small, little even. She had
snappy black eyes, a resolute mouth, and a general air of being
very quiet, very matter-of-fact and complacent. She would be
disturbed at nothing, excited at nothing; Blix was sure of that.
She was placid, but it was the placidity not of the absence of
emotion, but of emotion disdained. Not the placidity of the
mollusk, but that of a mature and contemplative cat.
Quietly she sat down at a corner table, quietly she removed her
veil and gloves, and quietly she took in the room and its three
occupants.
Condy and Blix glued their eyes upon their coffee cups like guilty
conspirators; but a crash of falling crockery called their
attention to the captain's table.
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