Her hair was really her only attractive possession.  Those sharp brown eyes did not please Tunis Latham at all.  And there was a certain smart boldness in her manner, too, which caused him a distinct feeling of repugnance.

He plunged into his errand with all the boldness that a bashful man usually displays when he finally gets his courage to the sticking point.

“You are Miss Bostwick?” he asked.

“What kind of lace—­goodness!  Who are you?” asked the girl, her stilted, saleslady manner changing to amazement with surprising suddenness.

“I live at Big Wreck Cove.  I guess you’ve heard of it,” said Tunis.

“Big Wreck Cove?  Do tell!” Her eyes danced.  “You’re from down on the Cape, then.  I guess you want some lace for your wife.  What kind did she send you for?”

Tunis brushed this aside bluntly.

“I don’t want any lace,” he told her.  “I come from your aunt, Mrs. Ira Ball.”

“My aunt?  Fancy!”

“She has heard about you,” went on Tunis.  “I guess she thought a heap of your mother.  She—­she’d like to see you, Mrs. Ball would.”

The girl patted her hair into place with a languid hand.  Her lips parted in a teasing smile.  This “hick” really amused her.

“Just to think!  Would she?” she drawled.  “Is she in town?”

“Who?  Mrs. Ball?  I should say not.  She’s down at Big Wreck Cove, I tell you.”

“Oh, really?  I thought by the way you spoke she was outside—­in her car.”  She tossed her head with that same tantalizing smile, almost a grimace.  “What did you want to tell me?”

Tunis realized that he could not talk to her here, after all.  The idle girls at the end of the counter were already whispering, and their smiles were poignant javelins of ridicule.  The captain of the Seamew knew that he was far beyond his depth.

“Where can I talk to you?” he asked.

“I get away for my lunch hour in a few minutes.  I could talk to you then.  But us girls ain’t supposed to entertain our friends at the counter.”  She flashed him another amused and quite comprehending glance.

“I’ve a message for you from Aunt Prue and the captain.  Captain Ira Ball.  He’s her husband,” explained Tunis jerkily.

“Oh, really?  Mr. Judson is coming this way.”  She flirted open a card of cheap lace lying on the counter.  “Won’t this do, sir?”

“Cat’s foot!  I don’t want any lace,” growled the captain of the Seamew.

“And I don’t want to lose my job,” rejoined the girl sharply.

“Where’ll I meet you so we can talk?”

“At twelve forty-five,” hissed the girl out of the corner of her mouth, beginning to wind up the lace again.  “Back entrance to the store.”  Then, aloud:  “Sorry, sir.  We haven’t any cheaper quality in that pattern.”

He knew she was ridiculing him.  He was cognizant, however, of the department head’s hard stare and the amused glances of the other saleswomen.  He strode out of the store, and on the sidewalk halted to mop his face and neck with a blue-bordered handkerchief.