He was trying to speak now. She heard him stammer something about the
escape of the mice; she heard him asking her pardon. Dazed, she laid her
hand in his as he aided her to descend to the floor; nerveless,
speechless, she sank into the big chair, horror still dilating her eyes.
"It's all up with me," he said slowly, "if you write to the owners. I've
bribed the janitor to say nothing. I'm dreadfully mortified that these
things have happened to annoy you."
The color came back into her face; amazement dominated her anger. "But
why--why do you keep such creatures?"
"Why shouldn't I?" he asked. "It is my profession."
"Your--what?"
"My profession," he repeated doggedly.
"Oh," she said, revolted, "that is not true! You are a gentleman--I know
who you are perfectly well!"
"Who am I?"
She called him by name, almost angrily.
"Well," he said sullenly, "what of it? If you have investigated my record
you must know I am as poor as these miserable mice."
"I--I know it. But you are a gentleman----"
"I am a mountebank," he said; "I mean a mountebank in its original
interpretation. There's neither sense nor necessity for me to deny it."
"I--I don't understand you," she whispered, shocked.
"Why, I do monkey tricks to entertain people," he replied, forcing a
laugh, "or rather, I hope to do a few--and be paid for them. I fancy
every man finds his own level; I've found mine, apparently.
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