Mrs. Toomey had not thought of that.
“I could not say exactly—not off-hand like this—but I presume only until my husband gets into something.”
“Has he—er—anything definite in view?”
“I wouldn’t say definite, not definite, but he has several irons in the fire and we expect to hear soon.”
“I see.” Mr. Pantin’s manner was urbane but, observing him closely, Mrs. Toomey noted that his eyes suddenly presented the curious illusion of two slate-gray pools covered with skim ice. It was not an encouraging sign and her heart sank in spite of the superlative suavity of the tone in which he inquired:
“What security would you be able to give, Mrs. Toomey?”
Security? Between friends? She had not expected this.
“I—I’m afraid I—we haven’t any, Mr. Pantin. You know we lost everything when we lost the ranch. But you’re perfectly safe—you needn’t have a moment’s anxiety about that.”
Immediately it seemed as though invisible hands shot out to push her away, yet Mr. Pantin’s tone was bland as he replied:
“I should be delighted to be able to accommodate you, but just at the present time—”