“Maybe you’ll think differently when I tell you that I’m the owner of this property,” snapped the man defiantly. Betty gasped. “Thought I was in Italy, didn’t you?” He grinned at her cheerfully.
Betty nodded. “In Europe somewhere.”
“Thought my agent was an easy mark, didn’t you?”
“He has always treated us very fairly and politely”—Betty rushed indignantly to the agent’s defense—“and I don’t see how——”
“‘Fairly and politely.’” The man, whose card read Mr. James Harrison, repeated the words jeeringly. “Well, my agent’s got to do more than treat young ladies ‘fairly and politely,’ I can tell you, to suit me. Do you know what the repairs on this place cost me?”
Betty had no idea.
Mr. Harrison named a sum. “I suppose you do know what rent you pay?”
“Of course,” said Betty with great dignity. “We’ve never been late with it so far.”
“You pay by the month. You’ve no contract—no lease. Isn’t that so?”
“Why—y-yes,” Betty admitted doubtfully. “I supposed that as long as we paid our rent and didn’t injure your property, we could stay.”