"You want a high pink finish, don't you, Mr. Barker?"
"Go as far as you like, sis; give 'em to me as pink and shiny as a baby's heel."
Miss Sprunt gouged out a finger-tip of pink cream and applied it lightly to the several members of his right hand. Her touch was sure and swift.
He regarded her with frankly admiring eyes.
"You're some little goil," he said; "you can tell me what I want better than I know myself."
"That's easy; there isn't a broker in New York who doesn't want a high pink finish, and I've been doing brokers, actors, millionaires, bank clerks, and Sixth Avenue swells in this hotel for three years."
He laughed delightedly, his eyes almost disappearing behind a fretwork of fine wrinkles.
"What makes you know I'm a tape-puller, kiddo? Durned if you ain't got my number better than I got it myself."
"I can tell a broker from a business man as easy as I can tell a five-carat diamond from a gilt-edge bond."
He slid farther down on his chair and regarded her with genuine approval.