A Damsel in Distress

Albert was in a hurry. He skimmed over the carpet like a

water-beetle.

"Quick!" he said.

He cast a glance at the maid, George's co-worker. She was reading a

novelette with her back turned.

"Tell 'er you'll be back in five minutes," said Albert, jerking a

thumb.

"Unnecessary. She won't notice my absence. Ever since she

discovered that I had never met her cousin Frank in America, I have

meant nothing in her life."

"Then come on."

"Where?"

"I'll show you."

That it was not the nearest and most direct route which they took

to the trysting-place George became aware after he had followed his

young guide through doors and up stairs and down stairs and had at

last come to a halt in a room to which the sound of the music

penetrated but faintly. He recognized the room. He had been in it

before. It was the same room where he and Billie Dore had listened

to Keggs telling the story of Lord Leonard and his leap. That

window there, he remembered now, opened on to the very balcony from

which the historic Leonard had done his spectacular dive. That it

should be the scene of this other secret meeting struck George as

appropriate. The coincidence appealed to him.

Albert vanished. George took a deep breath. Now that the moment had

arrived for which he had waited so long he was aware of a return of

that feeling of stage-fright which had come upon him when he heard

Reggie Byng's voice. This sort of thing, it must be remembered, was

not in George's usual line. His had been a quiet and uneventful

life, and the only exciting thing which, in his recollection, had

ever happened to him previous to the dramatic entry of Lady Maud

into his taxi-cab that day in Piccadilly, had occurred at college

nearly ten years before, when a festive room-mate--no doubt with the

best motives--had placed a Mexican horned toad in his bed on the

night of the Yale football game.

A light footstep sounded outside, and the room whirled round George

in a manner which, if it had happened to Reggie Byng, would have

caused that injudicious drinker to abandon the habits of a

lifetime. When the furniture had returned to its place and the rug

had ceased to spin, Maud was standing before him.

Nothing is harder to remember than a once-seen face. It had caused

George a good deal of distress and inconvenience that, try as he

might, he could not conjure up anything more than a vague vision of

what the only girl in the world really looked like. He had carried

away with him from their meeting in the cab only a confused

recollection of eyes that shone and a mouth that curved in a smile;

and the brief moment in which he was able to refresh his memory,

when he found her in the lane with Reggie Byng and the broken-down

car, had not been enough to add definiteness. The consequence was

that Maud came upon him now with the stunning effect of beauty seen

for the first time. He gasped. In that dazzling ball-dress, with

the flush of dancing on her cheeks and the light of dancing in her

eyes, she was so much more wonderful than any picture of her which

memory had been able to produce for his inspection that it was as

if he had never seen her before.