She hesitated and whispered to him.
“Won’t you ask Jordan to tea?”
“Why, certainly,” he answered aloud. “Medora’s wishful for you to come to tea, old man. So I hope you will.”
“I should have liked to do it,” replied Kellock; “but I’ve promised to see Mr. Trenchard. It’s about the moulds for the advertisements.”
“Right. He’ll want me, too, I reckon over that job.”
“He will without a doubt. In fact it’s more up to you than me. Everything depends on the pulp.”
“So it does with all paper,” declared Ned.
“True enough. The beaterman’s master. For these fancy pictures for exhibition you’ve got to mix stuff as fine as clear soup—just the contrary of what you may call real paper.”
“Are you coming, Ned?” asked Medora. “I’ve got to get over to mother to-morrow and I don’t want to go with a cold.”
“Coming, coming,” he said. “So long, Jordan.”