"Miss Kate O'Neill, who is head of O'Neill and Craven."
Carter blinked tired eyes, and saw a girl of three-and-twenty, half a head shorter than Laura Slade, dressed as simply, but with that something that somehow speaks of Europe, and money, and taste. Her eye was brown and her hair was the color of his own—nearly. No, it was darker. She was holding out a hand to him—a neat, plump hand that looked white, and firm, and cool, and capable, and which somehow or other he found in his own.
"Laura calls you George, I notice," he heard her saying.
"Yes, of course she would. We are engaged, you know."
He felt his hand dropped with suddenness, and up till then he had never known how thoroughly objectionable a laugh could be when it came from the lips of Mr. Balgarnie. Everything swam before him, and he lurched against the messroom wall. But with an effort he pulled himself together. "Miss Slade and I are engaged. We are to be married as soon as we can afford it. When you look round, and see how we've saved the factory from the Okky-men, we hope you'll raise my salary."
"Yes, I think I can promise to do that," said Kate O'Neill. "I had my eyes open when I came across the clearing. But do you think you are wise to marry?"
"Ha, ha, Carter, old fellow," laughed little Captain Image, "got you there! Get dollars first. Find connubial bliss later."
"But," continued Miss O'Neill, "you and I and Laura will talk over that later when we are alone."
Captain Image felt that he cleared away an awkward situation with all the savoir faire of a shipmaster. "Well, Carter, me lad," said he, "we know you've had a lot of lessons from old Swizzle-Stick Smith, but what about a cocktail? My Christian Aunt, look out, Balgarnie, there's Laura fainting."
Carter stared at them dully but did not try to help. "My God," he muttered, "to think I never guessed that K. could stand for Kate."