“You mean this—this nectarine? An old friend gave it to me as I was leaving home.”
Dolores realized with negligent surprise that the fruiterer’s good-by gift was still clasped in one of her hands.
“A real nectarine, is it? I supposed it was artificial—meant to be sort of emblematic—smooth, cool, not overly ripe, yet with suggestions of pungency like, for instance, yourself. That was too much to expect, eh?”
“Yes, sir, it was,” she admitted.
He continued to look at her. “Since you don’t claim subtlety, perhaps I’d better confess that you were selected before I went into the outer room. I looked over the flock through the curtain.”
“You—you did?”
“Yes, and advised Mrs. Hutton not to overlook you.”
“Then why——”
“Why didn’t I put the rest out of their misery at once? Because I am said to be kind-hearted. The name of being kind-hearted saves me money in getting employees. Then, too, my business has taught me to flatter all women, rather than offend them. Do you mind taking off your jacket, Dolores?”
She answered by compliance.