When she had gone I went up to
her room. I had been at work there for some time when a tap at the door
interrupted me. The Skeptic stood outside with a hoe and a
bushel-basket.
"Want some help?" offered he.
"It's not gentlemanly of you to notice," said I weakly.
"I know it," said he. He came in and inverted the bushel-basket on the
hearth and sat down upon it. "But the door was always open, and I
couldn't help seeing. If it wasn't shoes and a kimono in the middle of
the floor it was a raincoat and rubber boots. Sometimes I stopped to
count the things on that dressing----"
"It was _very_ ungentlemanly of you!"
"Guilty," he admitted again--but not meekly. There was a sparkle in his
eye. "But it isn't often, you see, that a man gets a chance to take
notes like this. An open door--it's an invitation to look in. Now, the
Gay Lady doesn't leave her door open, except by chance, but I know how
it looks inside--by the Gay Lady herself."
"How?" I questioned, my curiosity getting the better of me. "I mean--how
can you tell by the look of the Gay Lady that she keeps her room in
order?--for she certainly does.
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