"Well ... is she old or young?"
"I--ah--couldn't say."
"Mr. Sybarite!" said the young woman with decision.
He fixed an apprehensive gaze to hers--which inclined to disapproval,
if with reservations.
"Yes, Miss Lessing?"
"Do you really want to buy gloves?"
"No-o...."
"Then what under the sun _do_ you want?"
He noticed suddenly that, however impatient her tone, her eyes were
still kindly. Eyes of luminous hazel brown they were, wide open and
clear beneath dark and delicate brows; eyes that assorted oddly with
her hair of pale, dull gold, rendering her prettiness both individual
and distinctive.
Somehow he found himself more at ease.
"Please," he begged humbly, "show me some gloves--any kind--it doesn't
matter--and pretend you believe I want to buy 'em. I don't really.
I--I only want--ah--word with you before you go home."
If this were impertinence, the girl elected quickly not to resent it.
She turned to the shelves behind her, took down a box or two, and
opened them for his inspection.
"These are very nice," she suggested quietly.
"I think so, too." He grinned uneasily. "What I want to say is--will
you be my guest at the theatre to-night?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand you," she said, replacing the gloves.
"With Miss Prim and George Bross," he amended hastily. "Somebody--a
friend--sent me a box for 'Kismet.' I thought--possibly--you might
care to go.
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