His jaw suddenly tightened and she saw the likeness to Napoleon.
“I do more than struggle,” he affirmed, “I succeed. If I make up my mind to do a thing, I do it; if I make up my mind to get a thing, I get it. It means hard work sometimes, but that is all.”
For the first time, a really natural interest shone out of her eyes. The half sulky contempt with which she had received his advances passed away. She became at that moment a human being, self-forgetting, the heritage of her charms—for she really had a curious but very poignant attractiveness—suddenly evident. It was only a momentary lapse and it was entirely wasted. Not even one of the waiters happened to be looking that way, and Tavernake was thinking wholly of himself.
“It is a good deal to say—that,” she remarked, reflectively.
“It is a good deal but it is not too much,” he declared. “Every man who takes life seriously should say it.”
Then she laughed—actually laughed—and he had a vision of flashing white teeth, of a mouth breaking into pleasant curves, of dark mirth-lit eyes, lustreless no longer, provocative, inspiring. A vague impression as of something pleasant warmed his blood. It was a rare thing for him to be so stirred, but even then it was not sufficient to disturb the focus of his thoughts.
“Tell me,” she demanded, “what do you do? What is your profession or work?”
“I am with a firm of auctioneers and estate agents,” he answered readily,—“Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Company the name is. Our offices are in Waterloo Place.”
“You find it interesting?”
“Of course,” he answered. “Interesting? Why not? I work at it.”