Carter strolled across to the glove counter in order to shoot a few minutes on the wing.  His need for gloves was genuine; he had forgotten to bring a pair with him.  But his action hardly calls for apology, because he had never heard of glove-counter flirtations.

As he neared the vicinity of his fate he hesitated, suddenly conscious of this unknown phase of Cupid’s less worthy profession.

Three or four cheap fellows, sonorously garbed, were leaning over the counters, wrestling with the mediatorial hand-coverings, while giggling girls played vivacious seconds to their lead upon the strident string of coquetry.  Carter would have retreated, but he had gone too far.  Masie confronted him behind her counter with a questioning look in eyes as coldly, beautifully, warmly blue as the glint of summer sunshine on an iceberg drifting in Southern seas.

And then Irving Carter, painter, millionaire, etc., felt a warm flush rise to his aristocratically pale face.  But not from diffidence.  The blush was intellectual in origin.  He knew in a moment that he stood in the ranks of the ready-made youths who wooed the giggling girls at other counters.  Himself leaned against the oaken trysting place of a cockney Cupid with a desire in his heart for the favor of a glove salesgirl.  He was no more than Bill and Jack and Mickey.  And then he felt a sudden tolerance for them, and an elating, courageous contempt for the conventions upon which he had fed, and an unhesitating determination to have this perfect creature for his own.

When the gloves were paid for and wrapped Carter lingered for a moment.  The dimples at the corners of Masie’s damask mouth deepened.  All gentlemen who bought gloves lingered in just that way.  She curved an arm, showing like Psyche’s through her shirt-waist sleeve, and rested an elbow upon the show-case edge.

Carter had never before encountered a situation of which he had not been perfect master.  But now he stood far more awkward than Bill or Jack or Mickey.  He had no chance of meeting this beautiful girl socially.  His mind struggled to recall the nature and habits of shopgirls as he had read or heard of them.  Somehow he had received the idea that they sometimes did not insist too strictly upon the regular channels of introduction.  His heart beat loudly at the thought of proposing an unconventional meeting with this lovely and virginal being.  But the tumult in his heart gave him courage.

After a few friendly and well-received remarks on general subjects, he laid his card by her hand on the counter.

“Will you please pardon me,” he said, “if I seem too bold; but I earnestly hope you will allow me the pleasure of seeing you again.  There is my name; I assure you that it is with the greatest respect that I ask the favor of becoming one of your fr—­acquaintances.  May I not hope for the privilege?”

Masie knew men—­especially men who buy gloves.  Without hesitation she looked him frankly and smilingly in the eyes, and said: