"Please don't think me rude or unkind," she pleaded. "Don't even think
that I don't like your coming along with us--because I do. It isn't that.
Only, as I told my father before supper, you don't belong! You ought not
to be seen at these places, and with us. For some absurd reason father
seems to have taken a fancy to you. It isn't a very good thing for you. It
very likely won't be a good thing for us."
"Do please change your opinion of me a little," I implored her. "I can't
help my appearance; but let me assure you I am willing to play the
Bohemian to any extent so long as I can be with you. There isn't a thing
in your life I wouldn't be content to share," I ventured to add.
She sighed a little petulantly. She was half-convinced, but against her
will.
"You are very obstinate," she declared; "but, of course, you're rather
nice."
After that I was ready for anything that might happen. The lift had
descended and the porter bade us enter. We stopped at the third floor. In
the open doorway of one of the flats Mr. Parker was standing, solid and
imposing. He beckoned us, with a broad smile, to follow him.
To my surprise there were no locked doors or burly doorkeepers. We hung up
our things in the hall and passed into a long room, in which were some
fifteen or twenty people.
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