Part 19 (2/2)

So did I, but I didn't mean to let her know that.

”I'm going out,” she went on. ”If I don't, I shall have a fit.”

”Out!” I repeated. ”You can't. It's midnight.”

”Can't? There's no such word for me as 'can't,' when I want to do anything, and you ought to know that,” said she. ”It's only being ill that ever stops me, and I'm not ill to-night. I feel as if electricity were flowing all through me, making my nerves jump, and I believe you feel exactly the same way. Your eyes are as big as half-crowns, and as black as ink.”

”I _am_ a little nervous,” I confessed. And I couldn't help thinking it odd that Lisa and I should both be feeling that electrical sensation at the same time. ”Perhaps it's in the air. Maybe there's going to be a thunder-storm. There are clouds over the stars, and a wind coming up.”

”Maybe it's partly that, maybe not,” said she. ”But there's one thing I'm sure of. _Something's going to happen._”

”Do you feel that, too?” I broke out before I'd stopped to think. Then I wished I hadn't. But it was too late to wish. Lisa caught me up quickly.

”Ah, I _knew_ you did!” she cried, looking as eerie and almost as haggard as a witch. ”Something _is_ going to happen. Come. Go with me and be in it, whatever it is.”

”No,” I said. ”And you mustn't go either.” But she was weird. She seemed to lure me, like a strange little siren, with all a siren's witchery, though without her beauty. My voice sounded undecided, and I knew it.

”Of course I'm not asking you to wander with me in the night, hand in hand through the streets of Paris, like the Two Orphans,” said Lisa.

”I'm going to have a closed carriage--a motor-brougham, one belonging to the hotel, so it's quite safe. It's ordered already, and I shall first drive and drive until my nerves stop jerking and my head throbbing. If you won't drive with me I shall drive alone. But there'll be no harm in it, either way. I didn't know you were so conventional as to think there could be. Where's your brave, independent American spirit?”

”I'm not conventional,” I said.

”Yes, you are. Living in England has spoiled you. You're afraid of things you never used to be afraid of.”

”I'm not afraid of things, and I'm not a bit changed,” I said. ”You only want to 'dare' me.”

”I want you to go with me. It would be so much nicer than going alone,”

she begged. ”Supposing I got ill in a hired cab? I might, you know; but I _can't_ stay indoors, whatever happens. If we were together it would be an adventure worth remembering.”

”Very well,” I said, ”I'll go with you, not for the adventure, but rather than have you make a fuss because I try to keep you in, and rather than you should go alone.”

”Good girl!” exclaimed Lisa, quite pleasant and purring, now that she had got her way; though if I'd refused she would probably have cried.

She is terrifying when she cries. Great, deep sobs seem almost to tear her frail little body to pieces. She goes deadly white, and sometimes ends up by a fit of trembling as if she were in an ague.

”Have you really ordered a motor cab?” I asked.

”Yes,” said she. ”I rang for a waiter, and sent him down to tell the big porter at the front door to get me one. Then I gave him five francs, and said I did not want anybody to know, because I must visit a poor, sick friend who had written to say she was in great trouble, but wished to tell no one except me that she'd come to Paris.”

”I shouldn't have thought such an elaborate story necessary to a waiter,” I remarked, tossing up my chin a little, for I don't like Lisa's subterranean ways. But this time she didn't even try to defend herself.

”Let's get ready at once,” she said. ”I'm going to put on my long travelling cloak, to cover up this dress, and wear my black toque, with a veil. I suppose you'll do the same? Then we can slip out, and down the 'service' stairs. The carriage is to wait for us at the side entrance.”

I looked at her, trying to read her secretive little face. ”Lisa, are you planning to go somewhere in particular, do something you want to 'spring' on me when it's too late for me to get out of it?”

”How horrid of you to be so suspicious of me! You _do_ hurt my feelings!

I haven't had an inspiration yet, so I can't make a plan. But it will come; I know it will. I shall _feel_ where we ought to go, to be in the midst of an adventure--oh, without being mixed up in it, so don't look horrified! I told you that something was going to happen, and that I wanted to be in it. Well, I mean to be, when the inspiration comes.”

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