“What have you got to sell? I might buy something.”
“You are so kind; I have them here,” and she motioned to the next room. “My brother bring them, then he go ’way. It is very heavy to carry all the time.”
“Yama,” called he, “bring it in, whatever it is,” and in a moment the Jap came lugging the leather case.
Jimmy noted how deftly the shapely brown fingers unfastened the brass catches, and as she leaned over he found himself studying her with the eye of a man who has seen and known a great many women of all kinds and all nationalities with one or two exceptions, and one of the exceptions was Syrian. A faint perfume, the odor of which he failed to recognize, seemed to fill the room, and he knew it came from her, and he became suddenly aware that he was taking more interest in the saleswoman than he was in the goods she was about to offer him.
When the bag had been opened and the contents tumbled out promiscuously, without any attempt at order or display, she sat down on the rug beside them. She picked out a lace scarf and carefully smoothing out its folds held it before him.
“Very fine,” she said; “all made by hand, see?” and she pointed to the heavy embroidery.
“It’s all right,” he answered, but he wasn’t looking at the silk, he was looking straight in her eyes and wondering why it was he had never met a woman with eyes as black as those before.
“You are not looking,” she said.
“I am,” he replied.
“At the scarf, I mean.”