"Stop tormenting him!" repeated Diana. "We're pretty and young, and he knows it and we know it. What's the use in speculating about what he might have done if we were not attractive? He's perfectly satisfied with his western cousins—aren't you?" glancing up.
"Perfectly," he said.
Diana nodded emphatically.
"Do you hear, Silvie? He says he is perfectly satisfied with us, and he is a typical New Yorker. Therefore, we need not be at all disturbed about our capacity for entertaining anybody, if somebody will only offer us employment."
Silvette looked around at him. "I'd like to have you see us in our afternoon gowns; I believe you'd really be rather proud of the relationship."
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, half laughing, half annoyed; "I'm proud of it anyway. What on earth do you think a New Yorker is?"
"We've seen some," said Diana meaningly. "Several came here in answer to our advertisement. But we knew, of course, that your type existed, too."
"Have you been—annoyed?"
Silvette laughed. "One man, of very red complexion, inquired if Diana would act as his housekeeper. He had several country places, he said."
"There was a woman came; we didn't care for her," added Diana thoughtfully. Then, lifting her head, she looked at Edgerton with a gaze so pure and sweet, so exquisitely candid, that he felt his heart stop for a moment. Then the blood mounted to his face—to the roots of his hair.