“Excuse me,” she said: “Is Mr. Keeler here?”
She was a pretty girl, so his hasty estimate made when he had first sighted her was correct. Her hair was dark, so were her eyes, and her cheeks were becomingly colored by the chill of the winter air. She was a country girl, her hat and coat proved that; not that they were in bad taste or unbecoming, but they were simple and their style perhaps nearer to that which the young ladies of the Misses Bradshaws' seminary had worn the previous winter. All this Albert noticed in detail later on. Just then the particular point which attracted his embarrassed attention was the look in the dark eyes. They seemed to have almost the same disturbing quality which he had noticed in his grandfather's gray ones. Her mouth was very proper and grave, but her eyes looked as if she were laughing at him.
Now to be laughed at by an attractive young lady is disturbing and unpleasant. It is particularly so when the laughter is from the provinces and the laughee--so to speak--a dignified and sophisticated city man. Albert summoned the said dignity and sophistication to his rescue, knocked the ashes from his cigarette and said, haughtily:
Recollections of Mr. Price's recent remark concerning the missing bookkeeper's “good start” came to Albert's mind and he smiled, slightly. “I should say not,” he observed, with delicate irony.
“He's out in the yard there somewhere, I believe. Would you like to have me call him?”
The “sir” was flattering, if it was sincere. He glanced at her. The expression of the mouth was as grave as ever, but he was still uncertain about those eyes. However, he was disposed to give her the benefit of the doubt, so, stepping to the side door of the office--that leading to the yards--he opened it and shouted: “Price! . . . Hey, Price!”
There was no answer, although he could hear Issachar's voice and another above the rattle of lath bundles.
The rattling ceased. Then, in the middle distance, above a pile of “two by fours,” appeared Issachar's head, the features agitated and the forehead bedewed with the moisture of honest toil.
“Huh?” yelled Issy. “What's the matter? Be you hollerin' to me?”
“Yes. There's some one here wants to see you.”