“Tell me your favorite color,” she begged confidentially.
“I can’t conceive your looking nicer than you do in black,” he replied.
She made a wry face.
“I suppose it must be black,” she murmured doubtfully. “It is much more economical than anything—”
She broke off to bow to a stout, red-faced man who, after a rude stare, had greeted her with a patronizing nod. Laverick frowned.
“Who is that fellow?” he asked.
“Mr. Heepman, our stage-manager,” Zoe answered, a little timidly.
“Is there any particular reason why he should behave like a boor?” Laverick continued, raising his voice a little.
She caught at his arm in terror. The man was sitting at the next table.
“Don’t, please!” she implored. “He might hear you. He is just behind there.”