Day after day they went in and out of houses, flats and apartments, visiting none but the best, and calling an express wagon into service when a rug display was necessary. She was the brains of the combination and did all the selling. His job was done when he put the satchel down by her side. Then he effaced himself and was invisible until she was ready to exit, when he made a mysterious reappearance from somewhere.
And that’s the soup of the story; the roast follows.
The Jap valet to the young man of means and leisure announced to him one afternoon that a dark lady—makes you think of the queen of spades, doesn’t it?—wanted to see him and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Bring her in,” said Jimmy, who was feeling in just the right kind of a humor to see anyone, even a man to whom he owed money, and in a moment she had slipped into the room as lightly as a cat walking on wet grass. There was the sound of her French heels hitting the bare spots on the polished floor that was music to him, and he wondered what there was in the meeting of leather and wood that was so attractive and just a bit different from anything he had ever heard before.
She courtesied in a friendly, intimate sort of a way, and then spoke:
“Good day; the lady? Can I show her some laces? Very fine.”
There was just the faintest touch of an accent in her voice, but it was rather pleasant than otherwise, and it seemed to have a very soothing effect on him.
“There is no lady here,” he laughed, “that is, not yet.”
“Ah, too bad, and such a nice place, too. It is so beautiful.”
She half turned as if to go, and he stepped toward her.