Part 8 (2/2)
”Nothing of the sort--never smoked a cigar in her life--I mean, that is, well, something entirely different. But she was a beauty! Golden bronze hair--t.i.tian never painted anything like it; the bluest eyes behind the most wonderful dark lashes, creamy white skin”----
”And you followed her to a cloak factory, where you found”----
”Please wait till I finish, Whitney. I followed her nowhere, though she interested me tremendously. I wish you could have seen her eat.”
”Eat?”
”Particularly the grapefruit. By Jove, Barnes, that girl certainly loves grapefruit! It was fascinating. I couldn't keep my eyes off of her.”
”And did she notice you?” quizzed Barnes, raising his eyebrows.
”She was too busy,” came the gloomy rejoinder. ”I watched her steadily, fairly bored her with my eyes--tried to will her to look at me. They say you can do that, you know--mental telepathy, projecting thought waves or something of the sort.”
”Oh, rot!” cried Barnes, impatiently. ”I tried that on a dog once and I've got the scar yet.”
”But I tell you, Whitney, it almost worked. After a time her eyelids began to flutter and the roses in her cheeks bloomed darker. But just as I felt sure she would look up and see me--splas.h.!.+ the grapefruit hit her in the eye!”
”What!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Whitney Barnes, wheeling open-mouthed and facing his friend.
”The juice, I mean,” Gladwin laughed ruefully, ”and, of course, the spell was broken. She never looked again. Dash it all, there's some sort of a lemon in all my romances!”
”You certainly do play in tough luck,” sympathized Barnes. ”I can see that you need bucking up, and I think I've got the right kind of remedy for you. Wait, I'll call Bateato.”
Whitney Barnes stepped briskly across the room and pressed a b.u.t.ton.
In a twinkling the little j.a.p appeared.
”Bateato,” said Barnes, ”has your master any hunting clothes at the hotel?”
”Ees, sair!” responded the j.a.p. ”Plenty hotel--plenty house. We no time pack all clothes--go sail too quick.”
”Plenty here--splendid!” enthused Barnes. ”Pack a bag for him, Bateato, this instant--enough things to last a couple of weeks.”
”What's all this?” cut in Gladwin. ”What are you going to do?”
”Never you mind,” retorted Barnes, importantly; ”you do as I say, Bateato--I'm going to show your master some excitement. He'll never get it here in town.”
”Ees, sair! I pack him queeck,” and Bateato vanished noiselessly, seemingly to shoot through the doorway and up the broad staircase as if sucked up a flue.
”But see here”----objected Travers Gladwin.
”Not a word now,” his friend choked him off. ”If you don't like it you don't have to stay, but I'm going to take you in hand and show you a time you're not used to.”
”But I don't”----
”Don't let's argue about it,” said Barnes, lightly. ”You called me in here to take charge of things and I'm taking charge. Just to change the subject, tell me something about your paintings. This one, for instance--who is that haughty looking old chap?”
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