“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?”

He breathed in panic:  “Gloves—­”

“For a lady, Mr. Sybarite?”

He nodded as expressively as any automaton.

“What kind?”

“I—­I don’t know.”

“For day or evening wear?”

He wagged a dismal head:  “I don’t know.”

Amusement touched her eyes and lips so charmingly that he thought of the sea at dawn, rimpled by the morning breeze, gay with the laughter of young sunlight.

“Surely you must!” she insisted.

“No,” he contended in stubborn melancholy.

“Oh, I see.  You wish to make a present—?”

“I—­ah—­suppose so,” he admitted under pressure—­“yes.”

“Evening gloves are always acceptable.  Does she go often to the theatre?”

“I—­don’t know.”

The least suspicion of perplexed frown knitted the eyebrows of Miss Lessing.

“Well ... is she old or young?”

“I—­ah—­couldn’t say.”

“Mr. Sybarite!” said the young woman with decision.

He fixed an apprehensive gaze to hers—­which inclined to disapproval, if with reservations.

“Yes, Miss Lessing?”

“Do you really want to buy gloves?”

“No-o....”

“Then what under the sun do you want?”

He noticed suddenly that, however impatient her tone, her eyes were still kindly.  Eyes of luminous hazel brown they were, wide open and clear beneath dark and delicate brows; eyes that assorted oddly with her hair of pale, dull gold, rendering her prettiness both individual and distinctive.

Somehow he found himself more at ease.

“Please,” he begged humbly, “show me some gloves—­any kind—­it doesn’t matter—­and pretend you believe I want to buy ’em.  I don’t really.  I—­I only want—­ah—­word with you before you go home.”

If this were impertinence, the girl elected quickly not to resent it.  She turned to the shelves behind her, took down a box or two, and opened them for his inspection.

“These are very nice,” she suggested quietly.

“I think so, too.”  He grinned uneasily.  “What I want to say is—­will you be my guest at the theatre to-night?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” she said, replacing the gloves.