He laughed good-humoredly, but did not budge. Miss Harris made a movement that might easily have degenerated into an angry stamp.
“Oh, don’t be such an old maid,” she said petulantly. “Do the collar and let me go.”
I couldn’t refuse, but I went on with the hooking with a flushed face. What a fool I had been not to take Betty’s advice. Charming as she could be when she wanted, Miss Harris was evidently not a person whose manners remained at an even level.
“Have you heard Miss Harris sing?” asked Mr. Masters.
“Yes, through the register.”
“That’s a bad conductor. You must come up and hear her in her own rooms some evening.”
“If Miss Harris wants me to.”
“Mrs. Drake will some day hear me sing in the Metropolitan,” said the lady.
“Some day,” responded Mr. Masters.
There was something in his enunciation of this single word, so acid, so impregnated with a sneering quality that I stopped my work and cast a surprised glance at him.