He stared a
little more patently than was polite. Whatever his expectation of
amusement, this, evidently, was not the manifestation looked for.
The girl glanced not at him, but at the box, and spoke a trifle
impatiently.
"If it's my hat, it's very late. You should have gone to the
basement."
"It isn't, miss," said the young man, in a form of address, the
semi-servility of which seemed distinctly out of tone with the
quietly clear and assured voice. "It's the insects."
"The what?"'
"The bugs, miss."'
He extracted from his pocket a slip of paper, looked from it to the
numbered door, as one verifying an address, and handed it to her.
"From yesterday's copy of the Banner, miss. You're not going back
on that, surely," he said somewhat reproachfully.
She read, and as she read her eyes widened to lakes of limpid brown.
Then they crinkled at the corners, and her laugh rose from the
mid-tone contralto, to a high, bird-like trill of joyousness. The
infection of it tugged at the young man's throat, but he
successfully preserved his mask of flat and respectful dullness.
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