“Did you want my father?” she asked.
“Oh—er—ah, good-evening, Miss Ravenden,” stammered Colton. “I—I—I’ve been wanting to see you.”
“There is some mistake,” said she coldly. “I don’t know who you are.”
“My name is Colton,” he said. “I’m staying at Third House, and——”
“Does the mere fact of your staying at the same hotel give you the privilege of forcing your acquaintance upon people?” she asked sharply.
Then—for Dick Colton was good for the eye of woman to look upon, and not at all the sort of man in appearance to force a vulgar flirtation—she added:
“I don’t want to be unpleasant about it, but really, don’t you think you take things a little too much for granted?”
“But you spoke to me first,” blurted out Dick. “I’m awfully sorry to have you think me rude, but I want to know what this is.”
Curiosity drew Dorothy Ravenden as powerfully as it commonly draws less imperious natures.
Somewhat peculiar this man might be, but it seemed a harmless aberration, and it certainly took an interesting guise. She bent forward to look at the object extended to her.