And the impresario had the grace to laugh good-humouredly, though he flushed, too.
"Now here are two letters to the department stores," said Mr. Dalton, who for some reason seemed bent on exploiting his client, who in his inexperience and his absorption in the strange developments of his affairs, apparently saw nothing unusual in the trend of the conversation.
"They've not got stamps," he exclaimed excitedly, "That'll never do. They must get off! Can you accommodate me?" to the affable clerk. "Thanks, much."
"They are both orders for dry goods?" said Mr. Dalton.
"Oh, no; this is for the hydrostatic bed for the Living Skeleton. That poor man's bones, that he lives by, torture him. The feather beds, and the flock beds, and the mattresses are simply fierce. And he is stingy, yet he is tolerably warm in this world's goods. And he is an educated man. But he always stuck at the expense. Now he has got it."
Lloyd chucked the letter into the slit with extreme satisfaction.
"Stop—hadn't you better ask some lady about the number of yards for that gown, Mrs. Laniston, for instance, before you mail that letter?"
"If you will be so very kind." The ci-devant showman turned toward Mrs. Laniston with that distinguished manner which she had first observed in him. "It depends, of course, on the size of the person. It is a gown for the fat lydy. She is sensitive, and suffers dreadfully from the public. But she is a very nice lydy! I think she would like to be beautiful, and as she has so few pleasures I thought a surprise might tickle her. So I ordered sixty yards of silk—the heaviest and best quality."
"Oh, oh, I should think that would be ample," said Mrs. Laniston, decorously able to preserve her gravity.
But Ruth's dimples could not be hid; she was all pink now, and smiled alluringly.