pretty hair, and her great brown eyes fixed adoringly on his face as he directed the fascinating incomprehensible little song straight at her charming self, was obviously in no present danger of running the streets.
“Good morning, Miss Gould!” he said cheerfully, rising and handing the guitar to the abashed Annabel. “And you are really quite recovered? C’est bien! Business is dull, and we are amusing each other, you see. How do you like the rooms? I flatter myself—”
“If you flattered none but yourself, Mr. Welles, much harm would be avoided,” she interrupted with uncompromising directness. “Kitty and Annabel, I cannot see how you can possibly tell how many people may or may not be wanting lunch!”
“Billy Rider tells us when any one comes,” the director assured her. “They don’t come till twelve, anyway, and then they want to see the room, mostly—
