Paynter's in
recent months. With an exceedingly stagey counterfeit of a downcast eye,
she hinted at gossip lately arising from public observation of these
visits: gossip, namely, to the effect that Miss Weyland's ostensible
suppings with her aunt were neither better nor worse than so many bold
calls upon Mr. Queed. Her lip quivered alarmingly over such a
confession; undoubtedly she looked enormously abashed.
Mr. Queed, for his part, looked highly displeased and more than a shade
uncomfortable. He annihilated all such foolishness by a look and a
phrase; observed, in a stately opening, that she would hardly trouble to
deny empty rumor of this sort, since--
"I can't deny it, you see! Because," she interrupted, raising her eyes
and turning upon him a sudden dazzling yet outrageous smile--"_it's
true_."
She skipped away, smiling to herself, happily putting things away and
humming an air. Queed watched her in annoyed silence. His adamantine
gravity inspired her with an irresistible impulse to levity; so the law
of averages claimed its innings.
"While you are thinking up what to say," she rattled on, "might I ask
your advice on a sociological problem that was just laid before me by
Laura?"
"Well," he said impatiently, "who is Laura?"
"Laura is the loyal negress who cooks the food for Mrs.
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