“How odd not to see you in your shirt sleeves.”
He turned with a start and a sudden warmth in his face.
“Oh, well, I hope you’ll never see me that way again. How charming you look in that frock and with your hair in that braid! I always imagine you in prim tailor things, with your hair tucked out of sight under a stiff turban. This is lovely. You look like a little girl. Those awful dress reformers should see you.”
“It’s a comfort to think that the She-males cannot exterminate the artistic sense. Let us go into the library.”
“Is there a large comfortable chair there? These are impressive but unpleasant. Perhaps you would not suspect it, but I love a comfortable chair and a cigar better than anything in life.”
“One thing I do suspect—that we shall have to become acquainted all over again. You are not exactly like a fallen angel outside of the office, but you certainly have not patronised me for five minutes.”
“Oh, you can take your revenge now and patronise me. Hang the shop! I don’t want to think about it.”
In the library he critically inspected every chair, selected one that pleased him, and drawing it to the open window sank into it with a deep sigh of content. Patience gave him permission to smoke, and a moment later he looked so happy that she laughed aloud.
“You may laugh,” he said plaintively, “but you have less imagination than I thought if you don’t understand what this is to a man after Park Row. After an hour of that water and your muslin frock, I shall go back as refreshed as if my brain had taken a cold bath.”
“I’d fly back to the office this minute if I could. I’ve felt like a bottle of over-charged champagne for two weeks.”