He had the appearance of turning it over in his mind, and liking it the more upon consideration. “Yes, that is soundly reasoned. I can well believe your mother was a Scots lass.”
Vestalia flushed, no doubt with pride.
“Well, then, hear me out,” she said, with a pleasant little assumption of newly-gained authority. “Now, I’ve hardly known a man to speak to—that is, a gentleman, as a friend, you know—if I’m justified in calling you so on such short acquaintance—or no, I mustn’t say that, must I? We are friends—but it’s a new experience, quite, to me. As you say, I have my first impression of what it is like to have a man for a friend.”
The waiter, pushing the door open with his foot, brought in a tray with white cups and silver pots, and wee tinted glasses, and a tall, shapeless bottle encased in a basket-work covering of straw.
“I ordered maraschino,” remarked Moss-crop, as the man poured the coffee. “If you prefer any other, why, of course——”
“Oh no; whatever you say is good, I take with my eyes shut.”
She sipped at the little glass he had filled for her, and then, with a movement of lips and tongue, mused upon the unaccustomed taste. An alert glance shot at him from her eyes.
“I hope——” she began to say, and stopped short.
“You hope what?”
“No; I won’t say what I was going to. It would have been a very ungrateful speech. Only, you must bear in mind that I hardly know one wine from another, and I am leaving myself absolutely in your hands. You will see to it, won’t you, that—that I don’t drink more than I ought.”