consorting with a waiter.”
“Don’t be silly!” she protested at once, and the colour rushed to her cheeks and burned there under the lively amusement in his handsome dark eyes. “As if anyone in Alison Gardens would ever dream you were a waiter!”
“But it would perturb you considerably if they did? You might have to tell me you couldn’t see me again?”
“You’re making fun of me,” she said, and set down the teapot quickly because the heat of the handle was burning her fingers. “You know very well that isn’t what I meant.” And then, with slowly widening eyes and a diffident, hopeful note in her voice: “Are you likely to want to see me again? I mean—this isn’t just something you won’t want to repeat—?”
“With your concurrence I shall hope to meet you many times after this,” he told her, the amusement fading from his eyes, although one corner of hi s mouth twitched slightly.
“O-oh!” she said, and her eyes that were n either blue nor grey nor green began to glow as if the sun had come up behind them, and she was too inexperienced to conceal it from hi m.
He leaned towards her across the table. He spoke to her with sudden gravity.
“You don’t know much about men, do you, little one?”
She shook her head.
“Will you think me very impertinent if I ask you how old you are?”
Another shake answered him.
“I was twenty-two last birthday.”
“And I was t hi rty last birthday.” He took out his cigarette-case and lighted a cigarette. “That gives me an advantage of eight years over you, and so far as experience is concerned I think we might call it eighty years. You are a mere infant who has not yet begun to live, and I sometimes feel that I have lived a very long time ...” He extended a finely-fingered hand to her across the table, and when she put hers into it he said: “I hope you will allow me to see you as often as we can arrange it, little one, and I hope you won’t find it difficult to stomach the fact that I am only a waiter.”
Again his lips twitched.
“Please!” she begged, and he gave her fingers a little squeeze.
“If that proud, patrician employer of yours thinks you are sinking too low, tell her I can afford to take you out sometimes. And although our meetings may have to be arranged somewhat suddenly, and occasionally I may have to disappoint you, you won’t mind very much, will you? You won’t suddenly decide that the whole thing isn’t worth it, and tell me to find someone else to take out?”
“ Of course not,” she breathed, and the brilliance of his dark eyes looking into hers made her feel as she had felt once before—on the occasion of their first meeting, in fact, when he was choosing a tie-pin in Mr. Halliday ’ s jeweller’s shop—as if her bones were melting, and her heart was labouring to force the blood through her veins, so that all at once there was a strange breathlessness in her throat.
“We’ll get a taxi, and I’ll take you home,” he said. He stood up, smiling at her. “I’m on duty tonight. Let’s hope a lot of kind-hearted patrons will reward me with as much generosity as your Countess did last night!”
Before he helped her to alight from the taxi, and they said goodbye, he asked:
May I telephone you to arrange our next meeting ? And may I telephone you sometimes in any case?”
“Of course,” she answered.
“Her Highness isn’t likely to object?”
“As a matter of fact,” she confessed, “I think she’ll be intrigued.”
He was though t ful for a moment, and then he admitted:
“I think you are very probably right.”
CHAPTER VII
BUT the Countess wasn’t so much intrigued as sharply curious about the progress of Lucy’s little affair, as she called it, with a waiter who didn’t look the part, and who was too independent to appeal to her.
“Years ago I would have known how to deal with him,” she declared, her old eyes flashing fire as she put endless questions to Lucy after her
“Don’t be silly!” she protested at once, and the colour rushed to her cheeks and burned there under the lively amusement in his handsome dark eyes. “As if anyone in Alison Gardens would ever dream you were a waiter!”
“But it would perturb you considerably if they did? You might have to tell me you couldn’t see me again?”
“You’re making fun of me,” she said, and set down the teapot quickly because the heat of the handle was burning her fingers. “You know very well that isn’t what I meant.” And then, with slowly widening eyes and a diffident, hopeful note in her voice: “Are you likely to want to see me again? I mean—this isn’t just something you won’t want to repeat—?”
“With your concurrence I shall hope to meet you many times after this,” he told her, the amusement fading from his eyes, although one corner of hi s mouth twitched slightly.
“O-oh!” she said, and her eyes that were n either blue nor grey nor green began to glow as if the sun had come up behind them, and she was too inexperienced to conceal it from hi m.
He leaned towards her across the table. He spoke to her with sudden gravity.
“You don’t know much about men, do you, little one?”
She shook her head.
“Will you think me very impertinent if I ask you how old you are?”
Another shake answered him.
“I was twenty-two last birthday.”
“And I was t hi rty last birthday.” He took out his cigarette-case and lighted a cigarette. “That gives me an advantage of eight years over you, and so far as experience is concerned I think we might call it eighty years. You are a mere infant who has not yet begun to live, and I sometimes feel that I have lived a very long time ...” He extended a finely-fingered hand to her across the table, and when she put hers into it he said: “I hope you will allow me to see you as often as we can arrange it, little one, and I hope you won’t find it difficult to stomach the fact that I am only a waiter.”
Again his lips twitched.
“Please!” she begged, and he gave her fingers a little squeeze.
“If that proud, patrician employer of yours thinks you are sinking too low, tell her I can afford to take you out sometimes. And although our meetings may have to be arranged somewhat suddenly, and occasionally I may have to disappoint you, you won’t mind very much, will you? You won’t suddenly decide that the whole thing isn’t worth it, and tell me to find someone else to take out?”
“ Of course not,” she breathed, and the brilliance of his dark eyes looking into hers made her feel as she had felt once before—on the occasion of their first meeting, in fact, when he was choosing a tie-pin in Mr. Halliday ’ s jeweller’s shop—as if her bones were melting, and her heart was labouring to force the blood through her veins, so that all at once there was a strange breathlessness in her throat.
“We’ll get a taxi, and I’ll take you home,” he said. He stood up, smiling at her. “I’m on duty tonight. Let’s hope a lot of kind-hearted patrons will reward me with as much generosity as your Countess did last night!”
Before he helped her to alight from the taxi, and they said goodbye, he asked:
May I telephone you to arrange our next meeting ? And may I telephone you sometimes in any case?”
“Of course,” she answered.
“Her Highness isn’t likely to object?”
“As a matter of fact,” she confessed, “I think she’ll be intrigued.”
He was though t ful for a moment, and then he admitted:
“I think you are very probably right.”
CHAPTER VII
BUT the Countess wasn’t so much intrigued as sharply curious about the progress of Lucy’s little affair, as she called it, with a waiter who didn’t look the part, and who was too independent to appeal to her.
“Years ago I would have known how to deal with him,” she declared, her old eyes flashing fire as she put endless questions to Lucy after her
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