“Well, he looks hundreds of years older—”
“Here! Take care!” Stacey interrupted, stretching out his hand toward the lever, as the car barely grazed by a heavily laden motor-van. “Julie, you’re a public menace!”
“—than you, and he can’t do a thing except play golf.”
Stacey laughed again, this time at Julie’s imperturbable calm. “Everything’s all right, old girl,” he said, “and you needn’t try to apply balm to my bruised heart, though it’s nice of you to want to.”
And they got out, having reached the Prouts’ handsome brick residence, the plans for which Stacey had drawn.
But the maid who opened the door for them followed them into the living-room. “Mis’ Prout,” she announced tragically, “Annie’s going to leave!”
“Is she?” said Julie, drawing off her gloves. “Well, that’s a nuisance. Excuse me a minute, Stacey dear, while I telephone. Go mix yourself a high-ball. You’ll find everything on the sideboard in the dining-room.” And she sat down at a small mahogany desk and opened a tiny cupboard that concealed a telephone.
Stacey obeyed and presently returned with his glass to the living-room, where he listened to his sister call up two employment agencies to make application for a cook, and telephone an advertisement to two newspapers.
“You really are a wonder, Jule!” he said, when she had closed the desk. “Calm and efficient as they make ’em.”
“Oh,” she returned, opening her eyes wide in surprise, “that’s nothing! It happens so often that I should be a silly if I were upset by it now. Perhaps you noticed that I didn’t even have to look the telephone numbers up in the book. Now we can talk.”