Millie was astonished.
“Why, hello, George Augustus Fitzwilliam!” exclaimed Jack, dropping the paper and gliding over to the dude clerk, whose left hand he seized and shook as if he were some long-lost friend. “We haven’t seen you for two whole days. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
Percy, who was a tall, thin, good-looking Englishman, one of the clerks of the British & North American Fire Insurance Company, with offices on the third floor of the building, gave a howl of pain and then hopped about the floor like a monkey on a hot stove.
“What do you mean, fellow, squeezing my—aw—hand in this mannah? Don’t you know any bettah?”
Percy was very angry indeed.
“What do you want me to do? Give you one of those pumphandle shakes? That isn’t my style, George Augustus,” snickered Jack.
“I wish you would keep your distance, boy,” said Percy, resentfully. “I don’t wish to be bothered by you, don’t you know. You’re only the office boy. Really, Miss Price,” he said stooping to pick up the violets he had dropped, “these American boys are deuced annoying, don’t you know. These flowers are for you. Hot-house specials, from Hutchins’,” mentioning a prominent florist on Broadway.
“Gee!” exclaimed Jack, who had been watching his chance to chip in again, “I’m sorry to call you a liar, George Augustus, but you bought ’em off that dago down stairs. That’s where these came from, and if there’s any difference between ’em I’d like you to point it out. Same trade-mark on each,” and he pointed to the bit of red cord with which each bunch was secured.
“One bunch is quite enough for me,” said Millie, with a laugh. “If you’d come first, Mr. Chamberlain, why, I might have accepted yours.”
“Really——” began Percy.