She pushed back the half-moons of his fingers with an orange stick dipped in cold-cream. "You ought to watch your cuticle, Mr. Chase, and be more regular about the manicures. Your hands are more delicate than most." He started. "Of course I should pay more attention to them, but I'm pretty busy and--and--" "Of course I understand manicures are expensive luxuries these days." "Yes." "I have become so accustomed to hotel trade that I forgot that some hands may be earning salaries instead of drawing incomes." Her manner was unobtrusive, and he laughed quietly. "You are quite a student of types, Miss Sprunt." "Wouldn't I have to be, Mr. Chase, me doing as many as a hundred fingers a day, and something different coming with each ten of them?" "You are delightful," he said, letting his amused eyes rest upon her; "but I fear you've mysterious methods of divination." "Oh, I don't know," she said, airily. "Just take you, for example. I don't need an X-ray to see that there isn't a Fifth Avenue tailor sign stitched inside your coat. It doesn't take any mind-reader to know that you come in from the Sixth Avenue entrance and not from the elevator. Besides, when you come to live in a lobster palace you usually have your claws done to match your shell. I'd have given _you_ a dull white finish without your even asking for it." "I see where I stand with you, Miss Sprunt." "Oh, it isn't that, Mr. Chase. I guess, if the truth was known, the crawfish stand better with me than the lobsters." Mr. Chase's fingers closed lightly over hers. "I believe you mean what you say," he said. "You bet your life I do!" she said, emphasizing each word with a buff. She looked up, met his insistent eyes, and laughed in a high, unnatural pitch. "Other hand, please," she whispered. When he finally rose to depart she rose with him, holding her nosegay at arm's-length and tilting her head. "It's almost time for wood violets, Miss Sprunt. I'll try to get you some." "Oh, don't trouble, Mr. Chase; these hothouse ones are beauties." "I--I'll be dropping in soon again, Miss Sprunt. I think I'll take your advice and be more regular about my manicures." "Oh," she said, in some confusion, "I--I didn't mean that. You can care for them in between times yourself." At the Sixth Avenue exit he paused. "Good night," he said, slowly. "Good night," she responded, her lips warm and parted like a child's. When the click of his footsteps had echoed down the marble corridor Miss Ethyl crossed the room and indulged in several jerky sniffs at the little floral offering. "Well, whatta you know about that little tin Willie, bringin' a goil violets in May? You better stick to the million-dollar kid, Gert; he's the strawberries-in-December brand." For once Miss Gertrude did not retort; her eyes, full of dreams, were gazing past the doorway which had so recently framed the modest figure of Mr. Chase.