She had on a beach hat that carried the full flavor of Venice in texture and tilt, and her hair was a ripe corn color, slicked back from her temples in the fashion of the month.
Graceful and young she was, groomed as though thousands were to look upon her.

Normally Jack's eyes would have brightened at this sight, his lips would have curved enticingly, his voice would have taken the tone of incipient philandering.

But in his present mood he snapped at her.
"I beg your pardon.

This is not a public telephone booth.

It's a private office." She glanced inattentively his way, her smile directed mentally toward the person on the other end of the wire.