“That’s a tempting bit o’ ribbon!” said he.
Miss Moss blushed until a pulse at the top of her head that she never had felt before pounded away.
“I always was one for pink,” said she.
The stout gentleman considered her, drumming with her fingers on the table.
“I like ’em firm and well covered,” said he.
Miss Moss, to her surprise, gave a loud snigger.
Five minutes later the stout gentleman heaved himself up. “Well, am I goin’ your way, or are you comin’ mine?” he asked.
“I’ll come with you, if it’s all the same,” said Miss Moss. And she sailed after the little yacht out of the café.
The Man without a Temperament
He stood at the hall door turning the ring, turning the heavy signet ring upon his little finger while his glance travelled coolly, deliberately, over the round tables and basket chairs scattered about the glassed-in verandah. He pursed his lips—he might have been going to whistle—but he did not whistle—only turned the ring—turned the ring on his pink, freshly washed hands.