She wore a large bunch of pale-yellow
orchids, evidently his gift, and was paying for them with her glances.
One knew by the excited flush on the young man's face that he had rarely
been paid so well. His eyes took on a glint of intelligence, one might
almost say of hope, and he smiled egregiously, egotistically. His
assurance grew with each step he took. As he opened the door of the
luxurious car for her he wore an attitude of one who might possibly be a
fiance. Her little mouse-eyes--you wouldn't have dreamed they could ever
be large and wistful, nor innocent, either--twinkled pleasurably. She
was playing her usual game and playing it well. It was the game for
which she was rapidly becoming notorious, young as she was.
"Oh, now, _Chaw_-! _Ree_-ally! Why, I never dreamed it was that bad! But
you mustn't, you know! I never gave you permission!"
The chauffeur, sitting stolidly in his uniform, awaiting the word to
move, wondered idly what she was up to now. He was used to seeing the
game played all around him day after day, as if he were a stick or a
stone, or one of the metal trappings of the car.
"Chawley" Hathaway looked unutterable things, and the little mouse-eyes
looked back unutterable things, with that lingering,
just-too-long-for-pardoning glance that a certain kind of men and women
employ when they want to loiter near the danger-line and toy with vital
things. An impressive hand-clasp, another long, languishing look, just a
shade longer this time; then he closed the door, lifted his hat at the
mouse-eyed goddess, and the limousine swept away.
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