“So you’re a nartist,” she said. “I thought you were something funny.”
“Funny!” snorted Logan. “I call a shop-walker funny; or a banker, for that matter, or a millionaire. An artist is the most natural thing to be in the world. . . . Take your hat and gloves off and give me a hand, and then we’ll have tea.”
“Oh! I love my tea.”
“I know all about tea. I get it from a friend of mine in the City. I know how to make it, too.”
They worked together, arranging, dusting, keeping deliberately apart and eyeing each other surreptitiously. He liked her slow, heavy, indolent movements, and she exaggerated them for him. She liked his quick, firm, decisive actions, and he accentuated them for her; and she liked his thick, black hair and his strong hands.
He picked up the great chair and held it at arm’s-length.
“Oo! You are strong,” she said.
“I could hold you up like that.”
“I’d like to see you try,” and she gave a little giggle of protest.
“I will if I don’t like you,” said he, “and I’ll let you drop and break your leg.”