"Not a bit. Say, you look like an Italian, but you talk like an American."
"I am an American."
"From New York?"
"From New York."
The chauffeur studied her admiringly for a moment. "That's my town. Good old Manhattan Island! Say, Miss Storm, why were you so pale just now?"
"Pale? Was I pale?" she trembled.
"You sure were; you looked as if you'd seen a ghost. And now that I think of it—say, that's funny!" He stopped short, his two hands on his hips, and eyed her with a keen sidelong glance.
"What is funny?"
"Why, when I come in you gave me the haughty look—like this," he struck the attitude of a tragedy queen. "Who are you? What do you want?" he mimicked her. "Then a minute later you're all smiles and friendly and ask if I don't remember you? How is that, Miss Hester Storm?"
"I don't see anything strange about it," she began uneasily. "I thought—er."