looking down quizzically at me.

"Little lady," he began, "you shouldn't hold a grudge so well. It
doesn't harmonize with your eyes and your mouth. They were meant for
kindness, not severity. If there is any way that I can show you I am
humbled to the dust for coming here I'll do any penance you say."

"You must be mistaken, Mr. Underwood." I strove to control my voice.
"I have no grudge whatever against you, so you see you are absolved in
advance from my penance."

"Will you shake hands on it?" He put out his large, white, beautifully
formed hand and grasped mine before I had half extended it.

I felt myself flushing hotly. Of all the absolutely idiotic things
in the world, this standing hand in hand with Harry Underwood, in a
formal pact of friendship or forgiveness or whatever he imagined the
hand-clasp signified, was the most ridiculous. He was quick enough
to fathom my distaste, but he clasped my hand tighter and, bending
slightly so that he could look straight into my eyes he said, lazily
smiling:

"You are the most charming prevaricator I know. You come pretty near
to hating me, little lady. But you won't dislike me long. I'll make a
bet with myself on that."

"Hold that pose just a minute. Don't move. It's simply perfect."

Lillian Underwood's merry voice interrupted her husband's declaration.
With clever mimicry she struck the attitude of a nervous photographer