“A man.”
“Naturally. Hence the dimple.” She pointed an accusing finger at Darcy’s cheek. “Where?”
“Mouseley’s restaurant, on the Circle.”
“Gracious, child! You are peeking around the comers of life. Don’t you know the Mouse-Trap isn’t respectable?”
“I do now. I didn’t then. Tea was all I wanted. The tea was respectable enough. It was very good tea.”
“Never mind the tea. Tell me the rest.”
“He—the man—came over to my table. He wasn’t a bad-looking man at all; so freshcolored and pinky-brown, and dressed like the back page of a magazine. And he called me”—Darcy chuckled most reprehensibly at this point—“he called me Miss Glad-Eyes.”
“Did you shoo him away?”
“I told him he’d made a mistake, and he said he’d like to make one like it every day in the week and pulled out a chair and sat down. It was awfully funny.”
“It sounds so. What did you do then?”