The girl turned and drew it from the container. Paul watched her—the slim back and the delicate, white skin which showed through her fine blouse.
“A strange world,” he sighed as she turned toward him with the coffee. “Isn’t it?”
He had not meant it offensively. And as she gazed into his vague, grey eyes, saw the sallow cheeks and the whimsical expression on the mouth, she divined that he was not talking about the world but about himself.
“Do you think so?” she smiled.
“Don’t you?”
“I think you are a strange person!” she laughed, turned on her heel gayly, and pretended to busy herself with something below the counter. Paul noticed that her voice was quite cultured.
“Do you work here—always?” he asked.
“One week,” she passed nonchalantly from one little task to another. “This is my first night’s work—my last, too—Fred was sick.”
“Who’s Fred?” Paul found it difficult to keep up with her.