It was bad for her neuralgic eye, the meanderings of the _filet_
pattern, but she liked the delicate threadiness of the handiwork, and
Mr. Latz liked watching her.
There you have it! Straight through the lacy mesh of the _filet_ to the
heart interest!
Mr. Louis Latz, who was too short, slightly too stout, and too shy of
likely length of swimming arm ever to have figured in any woman's
inevitable visualization of her ultimate Leander, liked, fascinatedly,
to watch Mrs. Samstag's nicely manicured fingers at work. He liked them
passive, too. Best of all, he would have preferred to feel them between
his own, but that had never been.
Nevertheless, that desire was capable of catching him unawares. That
very morning as he had stood, in his sumptuous bachelor's apartment,
strumming on one of the windows that overlooked an expensive tree and
lake vista of Central Park, he had wanted very suddenly and very badly
to feel those fingers in his and to kiss down on them. He liked their
taper and the rosy pointedness, those fingers, and the dry, neat way
they had of slipping in between the threads.
On this, one of a hundred such typical evenings in the Bon Ton lobby,
Mr. Latz, sighing out a satisfaction of his inner man, sat himself down
on a red velvet chair opposite Mrs.
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