"Good afternoon, Miss Sprunt." He pushed the greeting toward her. "May I hope that you will accept these?"
"Oh, Mr. Chase, aren't you good?" The very quality of her voice was suddenly different, like the softening of a violin note when you mute the strings.
He drew his chair up to the table with the quiet satisfaction of a man ready for a well-merited meal.
"You and violets are inseparable in my mind, Miss Sprunt, because you both suggest the spring."
She laughed in low, rich tones, and her shirtwaist rose and fell rapidly from short breathing.
"Why," she said, "that's the very nicest thing any one ever said to me!"
His hand, long-fingered and virile, drooped over the edge of the bowl into the warm water; he leaned forward with his chest against the line of the table.
"What do you mean, Miss Sprunt?"
She took his dripping hand from the water and dried each finger separately.
"If you had been doing high pink finishes for three years you'd know the difference when a dull white came along—I—I mean, I—"