“Not such as a lady like yourself would prefer?”
“We cannot always choose,” I answered, recalling my one change of undergarments.
“You would like those better,” he said, indicating the display of silk underwear at the regular counter.
“Any woman would,” I admitted indifferently, as I turned to wait on a customer.
A few minutes later Mrs. Johnson asked my bust measure. She explained that a customer at the regular counter was buying silk underwear for a lady about my size. Glancing across I saw the elderly man talking with the regular saleswoman. He looked to be a man of refinement with ample means.
The next time my end of the counter was free of customers he approached me and thrust a parcel into my hands.
“What is this for?” I asked, recognizing that it was the parcel he had received at the regular underwear counter.
“For you,” he leered. Then before I could so much as wink my staring eyes he whispered: “I want you to meet me to-night—in Times Square drug-store at eight—sharp.”
Every drop of blood in my body seemed to rush to my head. In that instant I realized the significance of the expression “seeing red.” I was all but blind and choking with rage. Another instant and I would have done my best to wring his flabby neck.
A woman at my elbow asked the price of a corset-cover. At the elevator the old reprobate turned and blew me a kiss from his gloved fingers.