The brune goddess shaped ironic lips:
"Chauffeurs', I presoom?"
A measure of self-possession—akin to the deadly coolness of the cornered rat—returned to the badgered little man.
"No," he said evenly—"ladies', if you please."
Scornfully Miss Brady impaled the back of her head with a lead pencil.
"Other end of the counter, please," she announced. "I don't handle ladies' gloves!"
"I'm sure of that," returned P. Sybarite meekly; left her standing; and presented himself for the inspection of the fair young woman with the pleasant manner, who was now free of her late customer.
She recognised him with surprise, but none the less with a friendly smile.
"Why, Mr. Sybarite—!"
In his hearing, her voice was rarest music. He gulped; stammered "Miss Lessing!" and was stricken dumb by perception of his effrontery.