e when a dull white came along--I--I mean, I--"

He smoothed away her embarrassment with a raillery: "By your polish
shall ye be known."

"Yes," she replied, with more seriousness than banter; "that's exactly
what I mean. I'm not used to men whose polish extends beyond their
finger-nails."

She worked with her head bent low, and he regarded the shining coils of
her hair.

"How droll you are!" he said.

She pushed back the half-moons of his fingers with an orange stick
dipped in cold-cream.

"You ought to watch your cuticle, Mr. Chase, and be more regular about
the manicures. Your hands are more delicate than most."

He started.

"Of course I should pay more attention to them, but I'm pretty busy
and--and--"

"Of course I understand manicures are expensive luxuries these days."

"Yes."

"I have become so accustomed to hotel trade that I forgot that some
hands may be earning salaries instead of drawing incomes."

Her manner was unobtrusive, and he laughed quietly.

"You are quite a student of types, Miss Sprunt."

"Wouldn't I have to be, Mr. Chase, me doing as many as a hundred fingers
a day, and something different coming with each ten of them?"

"You are delightful," he said, letting his amused eyes rest upon her;
"but I fear you've mysterious methods of divination."

"Oh, I don't know," she said, airily. "Just take you, for example. I
don't need an X-ray to see that there isn't a Fifth Avenue tailor sign
stitched inside your coat. It doesn't take any mind-reader to know that
you come in from the Sixth Avenue entrance and not from the elevator.
Besides, when you come to live in a lobster palace you usually have your
claws done to match your shell. I'd have given _you_ a dull white finish
without your even asking for it."

"I see where I stand with you, Miss Sprunt."

"Oh, it isn't that, Mr. Chase. I guess, if the truth was known, the
crawfish stand better with me than the lobsters."

Mr. Chase's fingers closed lightly over hers.

"I believe you mean what you say," he said.

"You bet your life I do!" she said, emphasizing each word with a buff.
She looked up, met his insistent eyes, and laughed in a high, unnatural
pitch. "Other hand, please," she whispered.

When he finally rose to depart she rose with him, holding her nosegay at
arm's-length and tilting her head.

"It's almost time for wood violets, Miss Sprunt. I'll try to get you
some."

"Oh, don't trouble, Mr. Chase; these hothouse on