"It is becoming unbearable, Mr. Smith-Parvis," said she, looking him straight in the eye. "If you persist, I shall be compelled to speak to your mother."
"Go ahead," he said sarcastically. "I'm ready for exposure if you are."
"And I am now prepared to give up my position," she added, white and calm.
"Good!" he exclaimed promptly. "I'll see that you never regret it," he went on eagerly, his enormous vanity reaching out for but one conclusion.
"You beast!" she hissed, and walked away.
He looked bewildered. "I'm blowed if I understand what's got into women lately," he muttered, and passed his fingers over his brow.
On the way to Pickett's, Mrs. Smith-Parvis dilated upon the unspeakable Mr. Juneo.
"You will be struck at once, Miss Emsdale, by the contrast. The instant you come in contact with Mr. Moody, at Pickett's—he is really the head of the firm,—you will experience the delightful,—and unique, I may say,—sensation of being in the presence of a cultured, high-bred gentleman. They are most uncommon among shop-keepers in these days. This little Juneo is as common as dirt. He hasn't a shred of good-breeding. Utterly low-class Neapolitan person, I should say at a venture,—although I have never been by way of knowing any of the lower class Italians. They must be quite dreadful in their native gutters. Now, Mr. Moody,—but you shall see. Really, he is so splendid that one can almost imagine him in the House of Lords, or being privileged to sit down in the presence of the king, or— My word, Stuyvesant, what are you scowling at?"
"I'm not scowling," growled Stuyvesant, from the little side seat in front of them.
"He actually makes me feel sometimes as though I were dirt under his feet," went on Mrs. Smith-Parvis.