Almost mechanically she drew back the glasses from above the cigars upon the counter. Frank glanced at them.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I mean, have you any really good ones?”
Carry looked fairly up at Frank for the first time.
“Come, now,” he urged, “I have no doubt but that you have a box of good ones which you keep for your favoured customers.”
Carry smiled, and brought out the box which was usually reserved for Fred Bingham’s smoking. “I believe these are good, sir.”
“Yes,” Frank said, examining them, “these look the right thing, I will take half a dozen.”
Now Frank had entered the shop with his mind perfectly made up, that unless he was recognised, he should go out again without saying who he was; but Carry looked so very pretty and bright, that he thought it would be very pleasant to sit down and have a chat with her, and to do so there was no other way than to say who he was. So he began,—
“Mr. Walker—your father I presume—has he quite recovered from the fright and the shock he got the other day?”
The bright eyes glanced up inquiringly at him now, and a flash of eager colour came across her face.
“How did you know my father was hurt, sir?”