"I shall have the chimney swept to-morrow," she answered as grandly as if she had conferred a dukedom upon John and an earldom upon George.
Then with a special smile that was directed not so much toward the successful author as toward the gallant male she tucked away the check in her bodice, where it looked as forlorn as a skiff upon the tumultuous billows of the Atlantic, and went off to put on her green satin for dinner.
"We shall all hope to see you at half-past seven," she paused in the doorway to assure John.
"You know, I'll tell you what it is, old chap," said George when they were alone again. "You ought to have taken up the commission business and I ought to have written plays. But thanks very much for tiding me over this difficult time."
"Yes," said John, a little sharply. "Your wife's current account wasn't flowing quite strongly enough, was it?"
"Wonderful woman, Mrs. Easton," George declared. "She has a keen eye for business."
"And for pleasure too, I should imagine," said John, austerely. "But get on your coat, George," he added, "because we must go out and inquire at all the police stations in turn for news of Bertram and Viola. We can't stop here discussing that woman."
"I tell you the kids will be all right. You mustn't get fussy, John. It's absurd to go out now," George protested. "In fact I daren't. I must think of my health. Dr. Burnham who's staying here for a congress of medical men has given me a lot of advice, and as he has refused to charge me a penny for it, the least I can do is to pay attention to what he says. Besides, what are we going to do?"
"Visit all the police stations in London."
"What shall we gain by doing that? Have you ever been to a police station? They're most uncomfortable places to hang about in before dinner."