“Forty-five hundred dollars for a set of books!” exclaimed Viola, in unaffected wonder.
“Oh, my dear, that is nothing. These were some books,” and she winked understandingly.
“It isn't everybody who could get them! The edition was limited. But I happened on a set and I knew your father wanted them, so I got them for him. He made the first payment, and then he died—I read it in the papers. Naturally I didn't want to bother you while the terrible affair was so fresh, so I waited. And now I'm here!”
She seemed to be—very much so, as she settled herself back in the big leather chair, and made sure that her hair was properly fluffed around her much-powdered face.
“You are here to—” faltered Viola. “To get the balance for the books—that's it, dear Miss Carwell. Naturally I'm not in for my health, and of course I don't publish books myself. I'm only a poor business woman, and I work on commission. The firm likes to have all contracts cleaned up, but in this case they didn't press matters, knowing Mr. Carwell was all right; or, if he wasn't, his estate was. I've sold him many a choice and rare book—books you don't see in every library, my dear. Of course there were—ahem—some you wouldn't care to read, and I can't say I care much about 'em myself. A good French novel is all right, I say, but some of 'em well, you know!” and she winked boldly, and dabbed her face with the handkerchief which was quickly filling the room with an overpowering odor.
“You mean my father owes you money?” faltered Viola.
“Well, not me, exactly—the firm. But I don't mind telling you I get my rake-off. I have to so I can live. The balance is only three thousand dollars, and if you could give me a check—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Viola, “but I have nothing to do with the business end of my father's affairs.”
“You're his daughter, aren't you?”
“Yes.”