"You see, I am a hypocrite as well as a mean little snip," said she.
"I threw a little bread myself."
"Threw bread?" repeated Orde. "I didn't see you."
"The moon is made of green cheese," she mocked him, "and there are
countries where men's heads do grow beneath their shoulders." She
moved gracefully away toward Jane Hubbard. "Do you Western
'business men' never deal in figures of speech as well as figures of
the other sort?" she wafted back to him over her shoulder.
"I was very stupid," acknowledged Orde, following her.
She stopped and faced him in the middle of the room, smiling
quizzically.
"Well?" she challenged.
"Well, what?" asked Orde, puzzled.
"I thought perhaps you wanted to ask me something."
"Why?"
"Your following me," she explained, the corners of her mouth
smiling. "I had turned away--"
"I just wanted to talk to you," said Orde.
"And you always get what you want," she repeated. "Well?" she
conceded, with a shrug of mock resignation. But the four other men
here cut in with a demand.
"Music!" they clamoured. "We want music!"
With a nod, Miss Bishop turned to the piano, sweeping aside her
white draperies as she sat. She struck a few soft chords, and then,
her long hands wandering idly and softly up and down the keys, she
smiled at them over her shoulder.
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