She moved away with the piled-up dishes. His gaze followed her
covertly. Even her walk was graceful, not at all the hobble or the
jerky pace or the slouch of the other waitresses.
By and by she came back. She brought tableware and a glass of water.
She placed them meticulously before him. Then, for the first time it
seemed, she looked at Tunis Latham. She halted, her hand still upon
the water glass. She quivered all over. The water slopped upon the
table.
"Oh, is it you, sir?" she said in that timid, breathless whisper he
so well remembered.
"Good evening," Tunis rejoined. "I hope you are well?"
"Oh, yes, sir! Quite well. What will you have, sir?"
She no longer looked at him. Her gaze was roving about her tables,
but more often fixed upon the broad, alpaca-coated shoulders of the
restaurant proprietor at the front of the room.
Tunis ordered almost at random. She repeated the viands named. There
was a tiny tendril of her hair that curled low upon her neck at one
side, caressing the pale satin sheen of the skin. He felt an
overpowering desire to lean forward and press his lips to the tiny
curl!
As though she comprehended his secret wish, a wave of color stained
her throat and cheeks from the line of her frock to her hair.
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