She answered with a whimsical smile: "Yes. Isn't he a grand, foolish
old dear? He's such a roistering, bragging personage that I've named
him Benvenuto Cellini--though he's neither liar nor thief. He must
have told you what I called him."
So that explained this password of "Benvenuto Cellini"! "No, he didn't
explain anything. There was no time."
"I don't know where he is," she continued; "please don't tell me. I
don't want to know until he wants me to know."
Larry had been making a swift appraisal of her. She was perhaps
thirty, fair, with golden-brown hair held in place by a large comb of
wrought gold, with violet-blue eyes, wearing a low-cut gown of violet
chiffon velvet and dull gold shoes. Larry's instinct told him that
here was a patrician, a thoroughbred: with poise, with a knowledge of
the world, with whimsical humor, with a kindly understanding of
people, with steel in her, and with a smiling readiness for almost any
situation.
"I think no one will find you--at least for the present," her
pleasantly modulated voice continued. "There are so many things I want
to talk over with you. Perhaps I can help about Maggie. I hope you
don't mind my talking about her." Larry could not imagine any one
taking offense at anything this brilliant apparition might possibly
say.
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