"Yes, I knew that they could come from no one but you—they were so simple and natural and—sweet."
She laughed a pitch too high and plunged his fingers into water some degrees too hot. He did not wince, but she did.
"Oh, Mr. Chase, forgive me. I—I've scalded your fingers."
"Why," he replied, not taking his eyes from her face, "so you have!" They both laughed.
Across the room Miss Ethyl coughed twice. "I always say," she observed to her customer, "a workin'-girl can't be too careful of her actions. That's why I am of a retiring disposition and don't try to force myself on nobody."
Mr. Chase regarded the shadows beneath Miss Sprunt's eyes with a pucker between his own.
"You don't get much of the springtime in here, do you, Miss Sprunt?"
"No," she replied, smiling faintly. "The only way we can tell the seasons down here is by the midwinter Elks convention and the cloak drummers who come to buy fur coats in July."
"You poor little girl," he said, slowly. "What you need is air—good, wholesome air, and plenty of it."
"Oh, I get along all right," she said, biting at her nether lip.