Victoria looked at him approvingly. Neville Brown deserved the nickname of 'Beauty,' which had clung to him since he left school. Brown wavy hair, features so clean cut as to appear almost effeminate, a broad pointed jaw, all combined to make him the schoolgirl's dream. Set off by his fair and slightly sunburnt face, his blue eyes sparkled with mischief.
'Well, then, special and cream. Sixpence and serve you right.'
She laughed and stepped briskly away to the counter.
'You're in luck, Beauty,' said his neighbour with a sardonic air.
'Oh, it's no go, James,' replied Brown, 'straight as they make them.'
'Don't say she's not. But if I weren't a married man, I'd go for her baldheaded.'
'Guess you would, Jimmy,' said Beauty, laughing, 'but you'd be wasting your time. You wouldn't get anything out of her.'
'Don't you be too sure,' said Jimmy meaningly. He passed his hand reflectively over his shaven lips.
'Well, well,' said Brown, 'p'raps I'm not an Apollo like you, Jimmy.'
Jimmy smiled complacently. He was a tall slim youth, well groomed about the head, doggy about the collar and tie, neatly dressed in Scotch tweed. His steady grey eyes and firm mouth, a little set and rigid, the impeccability of all about him, had stamped business upon his face as upon his clothes.