"What?"

"Was it--moral--to bring a waitress?"

"Perfectly," I replied sharply. "Science knows no sex!"

"I don't understand how a waitress can be scientific," he muttered, "and
there seems to be no question about her possessing plenty of sex--"

"If that girl's conclusions are warranted," I interrupted coldly, "she is
a most intelligent and clever person. _I_ think they are warranted. If
you don't, you may go home as soon as you like."

I glanced at him; he was smiling at her with that strained politeness
which alters the natural expression of men in the imminence of a
conversation with a new and pretty woman.

I often wonder what particular combination of facial muscles are brought
into play when that politely receptive expression transforms the normal
and masculine features into a fixed simper.

When Kemper and I had seated ourselves, I calmly cut short the small talk
in which he was already indulging, and to which, I am sorry to say, my
pretty waitress was beginning to respond. I had scarcely thought it of
her--but that's neither here nor there--and I invited her to recapitulate
the circumstances which had resulted in our present foregathering here on
this strip of coral in the Atlantic Ocean.

She did so very modestly and without embarrassment, stating the case and