Forward stepped a perky miss from the back of the store. It was early in the morning, and I was the only customer. Whether purposely or not I don't know, but she took me to the end counter, where a couple more girls were lying in wait for me, put down about a dozen trays of rings in front of me, and smiled. I blushingly pulled out my marked size-card, and they smiled some more. Finally I chose one and a keeper; then—
"May I congratulate you?" smilingly.
"Oh, er—yes—er—thank you."
"Sydney?"
"Er—no; Melbourne."
"Indeed." Then very archly: "Now I'm sure she's dark." (I am gingery myself.)
Before I knew where I was I had hauled out her picture from my breast pocket and handed it over.
Instantly: "M-m-m-m! Cream Sicilian.... M-m! Jap. silk.... M-m! Ducky shoes ... love of a hat ...," and so forth. Finally the photograph was handed back.
"Yes; she does look a real good sort. We hope you'll be very happy."
My opinion of them at once rose ten beans. I bade them good-bye and left the shop, followed by their cheerful grins.