Mr. Pengarth, after his first gasp of astonishment, was a different man. He fumbled about on the desk, and produced a pair of gold spectacles, which he adjusted with great nicety on the edge of his very short nose.
“On business, my dear!” he repeated. “Well, well! To be sure! Is it Miss Harrison who has sent you?”
Mr. Pengarth’s visitor looked positively annoyed. She leaned across the table towards him so that the roses in her large hat almost brushed his forehead. Her wonderful brown eyes were filled with reproach.
“Mr. Pengarth,” she said, “do you know how old I am?”
“How old, my dear? Why, let me see!” he exclaimed. “Fourteen and—why, God bless my soul, you must be eighteen!”
“I am nineteen years old, Mr. Pengarth,” the young lady announced with dignity. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to treat me now—er—with a little more respect.”
“Nineteen!” he repeated vaguely. “God bless my—nineteen years old?”
“I consider myself,” she repeated, “of age. I have come to see you about my affairs!”
“Yes, yes!” he said. “Quite natural.”
“For four years,” she continued, “I seem to have been supported by some relative of my father, who has never vouchsafed to send me a single line or message except through you. I have written letters which I have given to you to forward. There has been no reply. Have you sent on those letters, Mr. Pengarth?”