I'll see him." The clerk shoved the bellboy toward the Angel.
"Show her ladyship to the elevator and Lord O'More's suite," he said, bowing double.
"Aw, thanks," said the Angel with a slight nod, as she turned away.
"I'm not sure," she muttered to herself as the elevator sped upward, "whether it's the Irish or the English who say: 'Aw, thanks,' but it's probable he isn't either; and anyway, I just had to do something to counteract that 'All right.' How stupid of me!" At the bellboy's tap, the door swung open and the liveried servant thrust a cardtray before the Angel.

The opening of the door created a current that swayed a curtain aside, and in an adjoining room, lounging in a big chair, with a paper in his hand, sat a man who was, beyond question, of Freckles' blood and race.
With perfect control the Angel dropped Lord O'More's card in the tray, stepped past his servant, and stood before his lordship.
"Good morning," she said with tense politeness.
Lord O'More said nothing.

He carelessly glanced her over with amused curiosity, until her color began to deepen and her blood to run hotly.
"Well, my dear," he said at last, "how can I serve you ?" Instantly the Angel became indignant.

She had been so shielded in the midst of almost entire freedom, owing to the circumstances of her life, that the words and the look appeared to her as almost insulting.

She lifted her head with a proud gesture.
"I am not your 'dear,'" she said with slow distinctness.