“You won’t stop at a white fib for me, Aunt Helene? I’ll tell a million for you about anything—whenever you say. Listen. You had an attack of—what was it? Headache from your eyes.”
“Nothing of the sort. Indigestion. Why do you insist that my eyes——”
“Indigestion, then. Anything you like. You didn’t wish to spoil Irene’s evening, but couldn’t be alone. You feel better now, but—quick, come back into the library. Stretch out on the couch. Mr. Pape, help me—help her!”
There was no time to enquire into the advisability of Jane’s plea. As the street door thudded shut and light voices waved upward, her tug on the matron’s plump elbow was released in an imperative gesture to Pape.
He, nothing loath, snatched up the surprised lady and deposited her upon the pillow-piled couch before the library grate. Jane, with rapid movements, completely enveloped her with the rare old Kiskillum rug which had draped its foot, sternly tucking in the dimpled, pearl-adorned hands which would strive upward to smooth a really unruffled coiffure.
“How does making a fright of me help?” Aunt Helene complained.
Pape did not answer. He was looking about for the stray bottle of smelling-salts which, for sake of realism, he should be pressing to her nostrils. Before he could locate any such first-aid, however, the daughter of the house had achieved the second floor and dawdled delightedly into the room.
Straight for the Westerner she came head-on, soft exclamations floating from her like the sea-foam tulle from about her throat.
“Do you know, I knew you’d stick around until I came! Harfy is fee-urious—his mustache does look so bristly when he gets in a rage. But I believe in trusting each other, don’t you? Do you or don’t you, Why-Not Pape?”
Through his mumbled response Pape realized wretchedly that Mrs. Sturgis had been raised to a sitting posture by strength of her astonishment. He heard her demand: