Her eyes flashed, but she said nothing. Offering him her handkerchief she commanded him to "wipe off the powder," and Elliott did so, wondering in a half-frightened way, what the mischief was the matter with Belle.
They were early, and sauntered along the brilliantly lighted street, with plenty of time to look into the shop windows. One firm had filled its largest window with ties of a dashing red.
"I think I'll get one of those," Tom said. "They're stylish just now, and I think it would be becoming, don't you?"
"No, I don't," she answered promptly. "Only a man with a good complexion can wear one of those things!"
Tom had always thought his dark clear skin was one of his best points, and that Belle should insinuate that it wasn't, hurt his pride. Neither spoke until they entered the theatre; then man-like he said the worst thing possible.
"That's a pretty girl over there," inclining his head toward a blond beauty. "I always liked blonds, didn't you?"
Belle was equal to the occasion. "Yes, I always liked blond men; I don't care so much for the girls."
Elliott's lower jaw dropped thoughtfully. He was as dark as Egypt, himself.
Neither enjoyed the play.