ble." She had already assumed a most inquiring air, yet it was soon clear that she needed every advantage her manner could give her. "What will you take———? what will you take———?"
It had the sound, as she faltered, of a general question, and Mr. Prodmore raised his eyebrows. "Take? Nothing, thank you—I've just had a cup of tea." Then suddenly, as if on the broad hint: "Won't you have one?"
"Yes, with pleasure—but not yet." She looked about her again; she was now at close quarters and, concentrated, anxious, pressed her hand a moment to her brow.
This struck her companion. "Don't you think you'd be better for it immediately?"
"No." She was positive. "No." Her eyes consciously wandered. "I want to know how you'd value———"
He took her, as his own followed them, more quickly up, expanding in the presence of such a tribute from a real connoisseur. "One of these charming old things that take your fancy?"
She looked at him straight now. "They all take my fancy!"
"All?" He enjoyed it as the joke of a rich person—the kind of joke he sometimes made himself.
