"You bet your life I do!" she said, emphasizing each word with a buff. She looked up, met his insistent eyes, and laughed in a high, unnatural pitch. "Other hand, please," she whispered.
When he finally rose to depart she rose with him, holding her nosegay at arm's-length and tilting her head.
"It's almost time for wood violets, Miss Sprunt. I'll try to get you some."
"Oh, don't trouble, Mr. Chase; these hothouse ones are beauties."
"I—I'll be dropping in soon again, Miss Sprunt. I think I'll take your advice and be more regular about my manicures."
"Oh," she said, in some confusion, "I—I didn't mean that. You can care for them in between times yourself."
At the Sixth Avenue exit he paused.
"Good night," he said, slowly.
"Good night," she responded, her lips warm and parted like a child's.
When the click of his footsteps had echoed down the marble corridor Miss Ethyl crossed the room and indulged in several jerky sniffs at the little floral offering. "Well, whatta you know about that little tin Willie, bringin' a goil violets in May? You better stick to the million-dollar kid, Gert; he's the strawberries-in-December brand."