He had meant to be only light and amusing, but when he saw the effect of his action, he cursed himself for a heavy-witted fool: the girl glanced first at the picture and then wildly about her. She had at last realized her mistake. "Oh!" she cried. Her delicate hands went to her face. "I had just come in and I thought--I thought it was _my_ room!" He registered a memorandum to kick himself as soon as she had gone. He moved awkwardly forward, still between her and the door. "It's all right," he said. "Everybody drops in here at one time or another, and I never lock my door." "But you do not understand!" She was still speaking through her unjeweled fingers: "Sir, we moved into this house only this morning. I went out for the first time ten minutes since. My maid did not want me to go, but I would do it. Our room--I understand now that our room is the other one: the one across the hallway. But I came back hurriedly, a little frightened by the streets, and I turned--Oh-h!" she ended, "I must go--I must go immediately!" She dropped her hands and darted forward, turning to her right. Cartaret lost his head: he turned to his right. Each saw the mistake and sought the left; then darted to the right again. "Let me pass!" commanded the girl. Cartaret, inwardly condemning his stupidity, suddenly backed. He backed into the half open door; it shut behind him with a sharp snap. "I'm not dancing," he said. "I know it looks like it, but I'm not--truly." "Then stand aside and let me pass." He stood aside. "Certainly," said he; "that is what I was trying to do." With her head high, she walked by him to the door and turned the knob: the door would not open. Than the scorn that she turned upon him then, he had never seen anything more magnificent--or more beautiful. "What is this?" she asked. He did not know. "It's probably stuck," he suggested. She was beginning to terrify him. "If you'll allow me----" He bent to the knob, his hand just brushing hers, which was quickly withdrawn. He pulled: the door would not give. He took the knob in both hands and raised it: no success. He bore all his weight down upon the knob: the door remained shut. He looked up at her attempting the smile of apology, but her eyes, as soon as they encountered his, were raised to a calm regard of the panel above his head. Cartaret's gaze returned to the door and, presently, encountered the old deadlatch that antedated his tenancy and that he had never once used: it was a deadlatch of a type antiquated even in the Latin Quarter, tough and enduring; years ago it had been pushed back and held open by a small catch; the knob whereby it was originally worked from inside the room had been broken off; and now the catch had slipped, the spring-bolt had shot home and, the knob being broken, the girl and Cartaret were as much prisoners in the room as if the lock had been on the other side of the door. The American broke into a nervous laugh.