"Oh. But Smithy—"
"What?"
"Was it—moral—to bring a waitress?"
"Perfectly," I replied sharply. "Science knows no sex!"
"I don't understand how a waitress can be scientific," he muttered, "and there seems to be no question about her possessing plenty of sex—"
"If that girl's conclusions are warranted," I interrupted coldly, "she is a most intelligent and clever person. I think they are warranted. If you don't, you may go home as soon as you like."
I glanced at him; he was smiling at her with that strained politeness which alters the natural expression of men in the imminence of a conversation with a new and pretty woman.
I often wonder what particular combination of facial muscles are brought into play when that politely receptive expression transforms the normal and masculine features into a fixed simper.
When Kemper and I had seated ourselves, I calmly cut short the small talk in which he was already indulging, and to which, I am sorry to say, my pretty waitress was beginning to respond. I had scarcely thought it of her—but that's neither here nor there—and I invited her to recapitulate the circumstances which had resulted in our present foregathering here on this strip of coral in the Atlantic Ocean.
She did so very modestly and without embarrassment, stating the case and reviewing the evidence so clearly and so simply that I could see how every word she uttered was not only amazing but also convincing Kemper.