Between Cutty's heart and his throat there was very little space at that
moment for the propelment of sound. Kitty Conover had innocently--he
understood that almost immediately and recovered his mental
balance--Kitty had innocently thrown a bomb at his feet. It did not
matter that it was a dud. The result was the same. For a second, then,
all the terror, all the astounding suspension of thought and action
attending the arrival of a shell on the battlefield were his. As
an aftermath he would have liked very much to sit down. Instead,
maintaining the mock gravity of his expression, he offered his arm,
which Kitty accepted, still the Grand Duchess of Gerolstein. Pompously
they marched into the dining room. But as Kitty saw Hawksley she dropped
the air confusedly, and hesitated. "Good gracious!" she whispered.

"What's the matter?" Cutty whispered in turn.

"My clothes!"

"What's the matter with 'em?"

"I slept in them!"

If that wasn't like a woman! It did not matter how she might look to
an old codger, aetat. fifty-two; he didn't count. But a handsome
young chap, now, in white flannels and sport shirt, his head bound
picturesquely-"Don't let that bother you," he said. "Those duds of his are mine."

Still, Cutty was grateful for this little diversion. As he drew back
Kitty's chair he was wholly himself again. At once he dictated the trend
of the conversation, moved it whither he willed, into strange channels,
gave them all a glimpse of his amazing versatility, with vivid shafts of
humour to light up corners.