He was embarrassed.  He was thrilled.  He was enraged—­enraged because, if she would thus receive him whom she did not like, she would certainly thus receive any man.

“I don’t mind you,” she went on, mockingly.  “I’d have to be careful if it was one of the boys.”

“Do you receive the—­boys—­here?” demanded he glumly, his voice arrogant with the possessive rights a man feels when he cares for a woman, whether she cares for him or not.

“Why not?” scoffed she.  “Where else would I see them?  I don’t make street corner dates, thank you.  You’re as bad as fat, foolish Mr. Tetlow.”

“I beg your pardon,” said he humbly.

She straightway relented, saying:  “Of course I’d not let one of the boys come up when I was dressed like this.  But I didn’t mind you.”  He winced at this amiable, unconscious reminder of her always exasperating and tantalizing and humiliating indifference to him—­“And as I’m going to a grand dance to-night I simply had to wash my hair.  Does that satisfy you, Mr. Primmey?”

He hid the torment of his reopened wound and seated himself at the center table.  She returned to a chair in the window where the full force of the afternoon sun would concentrate upon her hair.  And he gazed spell bound.  He had always known that her hair was fine.  He had never dreamed it was like this.  It was thick, it was fine and soft.  In color, as the sunbeams streamed upon it, it was all the shades of gold and all the other beautiful shades between brown and red.  It fell about her face, about her neck, about her shoulders in a gorgeous veil.  And her pure white skin—­It was an even more wonderful white below the line of her collar—­where he had never seen it before.  Such exquisitely modeled ears—­such a delicate nose—­and the curve of her cheeks—­and the glory of her eyes!  He clinched his teeth and his hands, sat dumb with his gaze down.

“How do you like my room?” she chattered on.  “It’s not so bad—­really quite comfortable—­though I’m afraid I’ll be cold when the weather changes.  But it’s the best I can do.  As it is, I don’t see how I’m going to make ends meet.  I pay twelve of my fifteen for this room and two meals.  The rest goes for lunch and car fare.  As soon as I have to get clothes—­” She broke off, laughing.

“Well,” he said, “what then?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied she carelessly.  “Perhaps old Mr. Branscombe’ll give me a raise.  Still, eighteen or twenty is the most I could hope for—­and that wouldn’t mean enough for clothes.”

She shook her head vigorously and her hair stood out yet more vividly and the sunbeams seemed to go mad with joy as they danced over and under and through it.  He had ventured to glance up; again he hastily looked down.