Legs crossed, chin resting on the butt of his riding-crop, he lay back in his chair watching her.
Women of her particular type had always fascinated him; Fifth Avenue is thronged with them in sunny winter mornings—tall, slender, faultlessly gowned girls, free-limbed, narrow of wrist and foot; cleanly built, engaging, fearless-eyed; and Geraldine was one of a type characteristic of that city and of the sunny Avenue where there pass more beautiful women on a December morning than one can see abroad in half a dozen years' residence.
How on earth this hemisphere has managed to evolve them out of its original material nobody can explain. And young Mallett, recently from the older hemisphere, was still in a happy trance of surprise at the discovery.
Lounging there, watching her where she sat warmly illumined by the golden light of the window-shade, he said lazily:
"Do you know that Fifth Avenue is always thronged with you, Geraldine? I've nearly twisted my head off trying not to miss the assorted visions of you which float past afoot or driving. Some day one of them will unbalance me. I'll leap into her victoria, ask her if she'd mind the temporary inconvenience of being adored by a stranger; and if she's a good sport she'll take a chance. Don't you think so?"
"It's more than I'd take with you," said the girl.
"You've said that several times."
He laughed, then looked up at her half humorously, half curiously.
"You would be taking no chances, Geraldine."
"I'd be taking chances of finding you holding some other girl's hands within twenty-four hours. And you know it."