“Is that necessary?” Francis asked good-naturedly.
She moved in her chair a little nervously, crossing and uncrossing her legs more than once. Her white silk stockings underneath her black skirt were exceedingly effective, a fact of which she never lost consciousness, although at that moment she was scarcely inspired to play the coquette.
“I'd like to think it wasn't,” she admitted frankly.
“I've seen you repeatedly upon the stage,” he told her, “and, though musical comedy is rather out of my line, I have always admired you immensely.”
She studied him once more almost wistfully.
“You look very nice,” she acknowledged, “but you don't look at all the kind of man who admires girls who do the sort of rubbish I do on the stage.”
“What do I look like?” he asked, smiling.
“A man with a purpose,” she answered.
“I begin to think,” he ventured, “that we shall get on. You are really a very astute young lady.”
“You are quite sure you're not one of these amateur detectives one reads about?” she demanded.