A moment later, looking over the customer's head, she added icily:
"What kind?"
The floor-walker retired, leaving P. Sybarite a free agent but none
the less haunted by a feeling that a suspicious eye was being kept on
the small of his back. He stammered something quite inarticulate.
The brune goddess shaped ironic lips:
"Chauffeurs', I presoom?"
A measure of self-possession--akin to the deadly coolness of the
cornered rat--returned to the badgered little man.
"No," he said evenly--"ladies', if you please."
Scornfully Miss Brady impaled the back of her head with a lead pencil.
"Other end of the counter, please," she announced. "I don't handle
ladies' gloves!"
"I'm sure of that," returned P. Sybarite meekly; left her standing;
and presented himself for the inspection of the fair young woman with
the pleasant manner, who was now free of her late customer.
She recognised him with surprise, but none the less with a friendly
smile.
"Why, Mr. Sybarite--!"
In his hearing, her voice was rarest music. He gulped; stammered "Miss
Lessing!" and was stricken dumb by perception of his effrontery.
"Can I do anything for you?"