"My dear Miss Cumberly, it is simply enchanting! A girl with such a
figure as yours never looks better than when she dresses sportily!"
The latent vulgarity of the man was escaping from the bondage in which
ordinarily he confined it. A real passion had him in its grip, and the
real Gianapolis was speaking. Helen hesitated for one fateful moment; it
was going to be even worse than she had anticipated. She glanced up at
Palace Mansions.
Across a curtained window moved a shadow, that of a man wearing a long
gown and having his hands clasped behind him, whose head showed as an
indistinct blur because the hair was wildly disordered. This shadow
passed from side to side of the window and was lost from view. It was
the shadow of Henry Leroux.
"I am afraid I have a lot of work to do," said Helen, with a little
catch in her voice.
"My dear Miss Cumberly," cried Gianapolis, eagerly, placing his hand
upon her arm, "it is precisely of your work that I wish to speak to you!
Your work is familiar to me--I never miss a line of it; and knowing how
you delight in the outre and how inimitably you can describe scenes of
Bohemian life, I had hoped, since it was my privilege to meet you, that
you would accept my services as cicerone to some of the lesser-known
resorts of Bohemian London.
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