Mrs. Smith-Parvis eyed him from a peak,—a very lofty peak.
Ten minutes sufficed to convince her that he had nothing in his place that she could think of buying.
"My dear sir," she said haughtily, "I know just what I want, so don't try to palm off any of this jewellery on me. Miss Emsdale knows the Queen Anne period quite as well as I do, I've no doubt. Queen Anne never laid eyes on that wristlet, Mr. Junco."
"Pardon me, Mrs. Smith-Parvis, I fear you misunderstood me," said the little dealer politely. "I think I said that it was of Queen Anne's period—"
"What time is it, Stuyvesant?" broke in the lady, turning her back on the merchant. "We must be getting on to Pickett's. It is really a waste of time, coming to places like this. One should go to Pickett's in the first—"
"There are a lot of ripping things here, mater," said Stuyvesant, his eyes resting on a comfortable couch in a somewhat secluded corner of the shop. "Take a look around. Miss Emsdale and I will take a back seat, so that you may go about it with an open mind. I daresay we confuse you frightfully, tagging at your heels all the time, what? Come along. Miss Emsdale. You look fagged and—"
"Thank you, I am quite all right," said Miss Emsdale, the red spots in her cheeks darkening.
"Oh, be a sport," he urged, under his voice. "I've just got to have a few words with you. It's been days since we've had a good talk. Looks as though you were deliberately avoiding me."
"I am," said she succinctly.
