"He's the prize tight-wad. That's what he is. Look at our summers! Isn't it enough that instead of Newport the Fabians rusticate on Brewster's Island?"
"He met mother there. He loves it."
"Well, I can tell you, mother would exchange a whole lot of sentiment for one good whirl at Newport or some other place where there are live ones! Say, Kath, be a good fellow. You can spare a dime or so. Ten dollars would be better than nothing. I'll give it back the first of the month, honor bright. Think of my having to depend on taxis! It would make angels weep."
The sister continued to regard him and he reddened under the pensive gaze, and twanged the guitar.
"You never have paid me back the first of the month and I wish you wouldn't promise," she said at last; "but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'm coming home to spend Sunday and I will give you the ten dollars—it's all I have just now—if you will take me to see that cousin of ours."
"What cousin?" asked Edgar.
"Aunt Mary's heir. The artist."
"Why are you determined to stuff him down my throat? He is absolutely no kin to us and has no demand on us. I decline."
"Then I shall go with mother," declared Kathleen, in her laziest drawl. "I'm sure she will take me. I am interested in his determination. I want to see—his oil stove. I want to pat Pegasus."
"Go, then, and much good may it do you!" Edgar put down the guitar and started up. "Where's the ten, Kath? Awful sorry to bother you."