CHAPTER XVIII

Helene d’Enver had gone back to the country, and Ogilvy dared not pursue her thither.

From her fastness at Estwich she defied him in letters, but every letter of hers seemed to leave some loophole open for further argument, and Ogilvy replied valiantly from a perfectly safe distance, vowing that he meant to marry her some day in spite of herself and threatening to go up and tell her so to her face, until she became bored to death waiting for him to fulfil this threat.

“There’s a perfectly good inn here,” she wrote,—­“for of course, under the circumstances, you would scarcely have the impudence to expect the hospitality of my own roof.  But if you are determined to have a final ‘No’ for your answer, I am entirely competent to give it to you by word of mouth—­”

“And such a distractingly lovely mouth,” sighed Ogilvy, perusing the letter in his studio.  He whistled a slow waltz, thoughtfully, and as slowly and solemnly kept step to it, turning round and round, buried in deepest reflection.  He had a habit of doing this when profoundly perplexed.

Annan discovered him waltzing mournfully all by himself: 

“What’s up?” he inquired cheerfully.

“It’s all up, I suppose.”

“With you and your countess?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“Rot!  Why don’t you go and talk to her?”

“Because if I remain invisible she might possibly forget my face.  I stand a better chance by letter, Harry.”

“Now you’re not bad-looking,” insisted Annan, kindly.  “And besides, a man’s face doesn’t count with a girl.  Half of ’em are neurotics, anyway, and they adore the bizarre—­”

“Damn it,” snapped Sam, “do you mean that my countenance resembles a gargoyle?  If you do, say so in English.”

“No, no, no,” said Annan soothingly,—­“I’ve seen more awful mugs—­married mugs, too.  What woman has done woman may do again.  Buck up!  Beauty and the beast is no idle jest—­”

“I’ll punch you good and plenty,” began Sam wrathfully, but Annan fled, weak with laughter.

“There’s no vainer man than an ugly one!” he called back, and slammed the door to escape a flight of paint brushes hurled by a maddened man.

“I’ll go!  By jinks, I’ll go, anyway!” he exclaimed; “and I don’t care what she thinks of my face ... only I think I’ll take Annan with me—­just for company—­or—­dummy bridge on the way up....  Harry!” he shouted.

Annan cautiously appeared, ready for rapid flight.

“Aw come on in!  My face suits me.  Besides, thank Heaven I’ve got a reputation back of it; but yours breaks the speed laws.  Will you go up there with me—­like a man?”

“Where?”

“To Estwich?”

“When?” inquired Annan, sceptically.

“Now!—­b’ jinks!”

“Have you sufficient nerve, this time?”

“Watch me.”