“Mahone,” repeated Boyce, with a sly wink at the footman. “She might spell that with five letters, and begin them with a B.”
Boyce spoke in the lowest possible voice, but Robert checked him severely, almost whispering.
“Hush, you young rascal. Don’t you know that women have sharp ears. Can I never learn you to be prudent.”
“About the time I learn you to be fair,” answered Boyce, a little savagely. “But, remember, this time you’ve got to toe the mark. I don’t mean to do all the work, and feed on the crumbs. So put that in your pipe, and smoke it, Bob.”
“Mr. Mahone!”
“Yes, Miss Post, the minute I have settled up with this fellow. He’s no more idea of figures than a donkey. Only I notice he always makes the mistake on his side. As I recommended him here, you understand, it’s my place to see that everything is on the square.”
Ellen Post gave her French cap a toss that set all its ribbons in quick motion, and would have left the room in high dudgeon, but for the business that she had in hand. As it was, she marched up to the young men, and broke up their conference at once.
“You stay here. We may have something to say to you,” she said, addressing Boyce, as if she had been that female tyrant, Elizabeth, and he a servant in her path. “Mr. Mahone will tell you if you are wanted. So wait.”
Boyce laughed broadly, and took a seat in the kitchen, while Ellen Post and Robert went to the servants’ parlor, and shut themselves in, the maid observing that the cook was always prying about, and, this thing being serious, they must have no listeners. With this caution, she seated herself on the hair-cloth sofa, and invited him, with her eyes, to take the vacant place by her side.
Robert, nothing loth, took the seat, and his arm crept along the back, until it almost embraced the long, thin waist of the lady’s maid, who looked around sharply to make sure that it was not indecorously near.