"Yes, they would, too. Goodness—haven't you anything to put the flowers in?"
She tipped softly about the room, holding the roses up and arranging them gracefully.
Norton watched her with a lazy amused interest. He couldn't shake off the impression that she was a sleek young animal, playful and irresponsible, that had strayed from home and wandered into his office. And he loved animals. He never passed a stray dog or a cat without a friendly word of greeting. He had often laid on his lounge at home, when tired, and watched a kitten play an hour with unflagging interest. Every movement of this girl's lithe young body suggested such a scene—especially the velvet tread of her light foot, and the delicate motions of her figure followed suddenly by a sinuous quick turn and a childish laugh or cry. The faint shadows of negro blood in her creamy skin and the purring gentleness of her voice seemed part of the gathering twilight. Her eyes were apparently twice the size as when first he saw them, and the pupils, dilated in the dusk, flashed with unusual brilliance.
She had wandered into the empty reporters' room without permission looking for a vase, came back and stood in the doorway laughing:
"This is the dirtiest place I ever got into in my life. Gracious! Isn't there a thing to put the flowers in?"
The editor, roused from his reveries, smiled and answered:
"Put them in the pitcher."
"Why, yes, of course, the pitcher!" she cried, rushing to the little washstand.
"Why, there isn't a drop of water in it—I'll go to the well and get some."
She seized the pitcher, laid the flowers down in the bowl, darted out the door and flew across the street to the well in the Court House Square.