The guest went through an exaggerated pantomime of scrutinizing the lady's tempting lips. "No; they look anything but bitter," he returned, waggishly amorous.
"A glass of dry sherry, sir? What number would you like?" Miss Popkiss hastily ran to where she had replaced the wine-list, and with the same movement took the opportunity of looking out of the window. Mr. Thomas Sparrow was not in evidence: in fact, the yard seemed empty. Satisfied of this she took the list demurely to the still leering guest.
"Number four," he said, with a world of cheap blandishment in his winking eyes.
"Number four?" Miss Popkiss nearly succeeded in a look of mystification. "Number four is a claret, sir."
"That's more like the colour," he replied significantly. "Here!" He took a step to her, disregarding her feeble attempt to hold the wine-list as a barrier between them. "Don't you know what make four?"
"What, sir?" she asked with a giggle now; preferring his working out of the arithmetical problem as likely to be more racy than her own.
"Why"—taking the obnoxious wine-list with one hand, and slipping the other round her waist—"four is two and two together, like this." And he followed up the proposition by oscular demonstration.
"Oh, my lord! Don't do so, my lord!" Miss Popkiss affected to protest, without, however, raising her voice to a pitch that would reach the bar, or making more than the most perfunctory efforts to release herself from the encircling arm.
"That's a good sample," he grinned amorously. "I should like a dozen."
There was no doubt about him, Miss Popkiss concluded, the episode entirely falling in with her preconception of aristocratic ways. "Oh," she giggled, "you are a naughty nobleman." Then, releasing herself, this time by a business-like effort, she ran off, doubtless with the idea, after the manner of her kind, of doling out her favours and spreading the lordly caresses over as long a period as circumstances permitted.