“What’s this?” he demanded with a pretense of fatherly severity, which he imagined became him very well in the presence of women. “Not ready yet, Mrs. Harvey?”
The woman waved him to a chair with unsmiling unconcern; dropped into another, crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, her hands folded across the back of her head, her sleeves, wide and flaring, sliding down below her elbows. She caught Braman’s burning stare of interest in this revelation of negligence, and smiled at him in faint derision.
“I’m tired, Croft. I’ve changed my mind about going to the First Merchants’ Ball. I’d much rather sit here and chin you—if you don’t mind.”
“Not a bit!” hastily acquiesced the banker. “In fact, I like the idea of staying here much better. It is more private, you know.” He grinned significantly, but the woman’s smile of faint derision changed merely to irony, which held steadily, making Braman’s cheeks glow crimson.
“Well, then,” she laughed, exulting in her power over him; “let’s get busy. What do you want to chin about?”
“I’ll tell you after I’ve wet my whistle,” said the banker, gayly. “I’m dry as a bone in the middle of the Sahara desert!”
“I’ll take mine ‘straight,’” she laughed.
Braman rang a bell. A waiter with glasses and a bottle appeared, entered, was paid, and departed, grinning without giving the banker any change from a ten dollar bill.
The woman laughed immoderately at Braman’s wolfish snarl.
“Be a sport, Croft. Don’t begrudge a poor waiter a few honestly earned dollars!”