The girl seemed even frailer and younger in her hat and street gown. A silver-fox stole hung from her shoulders; a gold bag lay on the table under the bunch of violets.
She paid no attention whatever to him. Presently her wheat-straw buckled, and she selected a better one.
He said: “There’s something rather serious I’d like to speak to you about if you’ll let me. I’m not the sort you evidently suppose. I’m not trying to annoy you.”
At that she looked around and upward once more.
Very, very young, but already spoiled, he thought, for the dark-blue eyes were coolly appraising him, and the droop of the mouth had become almost sullen. Besides, traces of paint still remained to incarnadine lip and cheek and there was a hint of hardness in the youthful plumpness of the features.
“Are you a professional?” she asked without curiosity.
“A theatrical man? No.”
“Then if you haven’t anything to offer me, what is it you wish?”
“I have a job to offer if you care for it and if you are up to it,” he said.
Her eyes became slightly hostile: