“Why?” she asked, coming slowly to the opposite side of the table and leaning on the back of a chair.
But in gazing at her he neglected to reply. “By Jove, Madge,” he broke out, “do you know you're a beauty?”
She flushed and shook her head. Then she slipped down into the chair, and rested her elbows on the table.
“You're the hardest person to forget I ever knew.”
“I guess you have tried hard enough.”
“No—I couldn't get round lately—I've been too busy. Anyhow, what was the use? If I had thought I stood any show of seeing you, I would have come or broken something. But there was always Murphy or McGlory around.” He could not tell her his real object in coming, nor in avoiding the two proprietors, who had watched him with suspicion from the first. “Do you know, this is the first real chance you've ever given me to talk to you?”
“How did I know you wanted to?”
“Oh, come, Madge, you know better than that. How could anybody help wanting to? But”—he looked around—“are we all right here? Are we likely to be disturbed?”
“Why, no, not unless a customer comes in.”
“Isn't there another room out back there where we can have a good talk?”