But her anxious gaze, as she carefully kept her
distance, told that he was not even middle-aged. He was, it seemed, a
curious mixture of cherub and Mephistopheles in type: round faced,
blue eyed, with smooth cheeks that looked pink even in the cruel
electric light. His hair and brushed-up eyebrows were thin and of a
medium brown; but he had a sharply waxed moustache and a little
pointed goatee or "imperial" so much darker in colour that they were
conspicuous objects.
He was talking to the girl in a high-keyed yet somewhat blustering
voice, asking questions which Win could not and did not try to hear.
The answers were given purposely in a low tone, and the girl laid on
the counter several papers from a little black bag at her waist. These
the superintendent took up, unfolding them with plump, dimpled
fingers, like those of a young woman.
With his bright, glancing blue eyes he skimmed the contents of each
paper--probably references, thought Win--and then returned them to
their owner.
"These are no good," he pronounced in a louder voice than before. "And
you don't look strong enough for Christmas work---"
Suddenly the red-haired girl darted her head forward, like that of a
pecking bird, hastily muttered a few words, and drew back, as if
hoping that those not concerned might fail to notice the manoeuvre.
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