"I—I'm not spoofing you, Mr. Moody," cried Mrs. Smith-Parvis delightedly.
His face relaxed slightly. One might have detected the faint, suppressed gleam of a smile in his eyes,—but it was so brief, so evanescent that it would be folly to put it down as such.
The ensuing five minutes were devoted entirely to manœuvres on the part of all three. Mrs. Smith-Parvis was trying to shunt Mrs. Millidew on to an ordinary salesman, and Mrs. Millidew was standing her ground, resolute in the same direction. The former couldn't possibly inspect heirlooms under the eye of that old busy-body, nor could the latter resort to cajolery in the effort to obtain a certain needle-point chair at bankrupt figures. As for Mr. Moody, he was splendid. The lordliest duke in all of Britain could not have presented a truer exemplification of lordliness than he. He quite outdid himself. The eighth letter in the alphabet behaved in a most gratifying manner; indeed, he even took chances with it, just to see how it would act if he were not watching it,—and not once did it fail him.
"But, of course, one never can find anything one wants unless one goes to the really exclusive places, you know," Mrs. Smith-Parvis was saying. "It is a waste of time, don't you think?"
"Quate—oh, yes, quate," drawled Mr. Moody, in a roving sort of way. That is to say, his interest seemed to be utterly detached, as if nothing that Mrs. Smith-Parvis said really mattered.
"Naturally we try to find things in the cheaper places before we come here," went on the lady boldly.
