“Sit down somewhere,” he said almost impatiently; and when he noted the childish effort with which she wriggled into her chair, and tried heroically to assume a debonair manner, a feeling deeper than mere irritation seized him.
“Darn the luck!” he ruminated; “she’s so little, and so lovely—what’s a fellow to do in such a case, anyway?”
“It doesn’t seem quite a suitable time to be eating, does it?” she observed politely. The words were accompanied by a gently deprecatory smile which amazed Baron by a quality of odd sophistication and practised self-restraint.
“We needn’t eat anything,” he said, more cordially. “I think we ought to order something to drink. You see, I have to decide what to do.”
She adjusted certain articles on the table with feminine nicety. “That’s very good of you, I’m sure,” she said.
“What is?”
“I mean your taking an interest in me.”
“An interest in you! What else can I do?”
She propped her face up in the palms of her hands and looked across the table at him meditatively.
“Don’t!” he exclaimed. “I’m not used to having a cherub on my hands. It’s my own predicament I’m thinking about, not yours. Do you drink milk?”