"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.
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