The two women exchanged significant glances which were lost on Mr. Larry. His wife rose briskly.
“I think I’ll ask her over the phone. We have no particular adventure in thrift planned just now. And it does sound so nice and fresh and inviting—‘Home Hampers.’”
She returned from the telephone, wearing the expression commonly attributed to the cat that has just consumed a canary.
“Think—for the first time since we started these adventures in thrift, I have been able to give Teresa Moore a tip. I do feel that puffed up.”
She seated herself on the arm of her husband’s chair and laid the picture postal on the table.
“And I heard you ask in the most casual way: ‘Teresa, do you think it would pay us to investigate the Long Island Home Hamper?’ just as if you had known about it for five months instead of five minutes,” commented Mr. Larry, pinching his wife’s cheek.
“You really can’t blame her,” said Claire. “Teresa is so horribly wise; and she has made us feel so inferior!” “Not that she meant to,” added kindly Mrs. Larry, “but I have had to follow her lead so long—and I—well, I did enjoy handing her a bit of information.”
“No doubt,” laughed Mr. Larry, drawing her close. “And now that you have unearthed the Long Island Hamper, what do you propose to do with it?”
“Find out what it is worth.”
“My dear, you certainly are gaining in directness.”