"No," he said evenly--"ladies', if you please."
Scornfully Miss Brady impaled the back of her head with a lead pencil.
"Other end of the counter, please," she announced. "I don't handle
ladies' gloves!"
"I'm sure of that," returned P. Sybarite meekly; left her standing;
and presented himself for the inspection of the fair young woman with
the pleasant manner, who was now free of her late customer.
She recognised him with surprise, but none the less with a friendly
smile.
"Why, Mr. Sybarite--!"
In his hearing, her voice was rarest music. He gulped; stammered "Miss
Lessing!" and was stricken dumb by perception of his effrontery.
"Can I do anything for you?"
He breathed in panic: "Gloves--"
"For a lady, Mr. Sybarite?"
He nodded as expressively as any automaton.
"What kind?"
"I--I don't know."
"For day or evening wear?"
He wagged a dismal head: "I don't know."
Amusement touched her eyes and lips so charmingly that he thought of
the sea at dawn, rimpled by the morning breeze, gay with the laughter
of young sunlight.
"Surely you must!" she insisted.
"No," he contended in stubborn melancholy.
"Oh, I see. You wish to make a present--?"
"I--ah--suppose so," he admitted under pressure--"yes."
"Evening gloves are always acceptable. Does she go often to the
theatre?"
"I--don't know."
The least suspicion of perplexed frown knitted the eyebrows of Miss
Lessing.
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