Theodore prepared the phosphate and placed it before her. His eyes took on the steady, level expression that Miss Billy's habitually wore, but his voice was cool and bland as he said aloud, "Frank, please make a charge against Miss Myrtle Blanchard,—one phosphate, ten cents."
The other customers gazed in astonishment at this unheard of publicity in entering a charge. Miss Myrtle turned from pink to crimson, and slowly back to pink,—but she philosophically concluded to drink her phosphate and think the matter out afterward. Theodore, meantime, had taken his hat, and getting the bill and some change from Mr. Brown, left the store.
"The mean thing!" inwardly raged Miss Myrtle. "He meant that for a snub,—I know he did. And he never so much as glanced at me as he went out. Just wait! I'll get even with him."
Out in the hot sunshine Theodore's other conscience was accusing him. "It's a mean thing to use a girl that way! But if it has to be done, I'm glad Myrtle Blanchard got it first. Yet it's all my own fault! If I hadn't treated them at the first, they wouldn't have come to expect it. But I feel as mean as a cur that's stolen another cur's bone."
A walk of half a mile brought Theodore to a handsome house in a fashionable street. He ascended the steps, touched the bell, and heard a voice on the inside distinctly say, "If that's that boy from Brown's, Nora, tell him I'm not at home."
The door opened and a maid in a white cap glibly repeated the message: "Mrs. Thorpe isn't at home this morning. Won't you call again?"
"She expects me this morning," said Theodore, firmly,—"so with your permission, I'll wait." As he spoke, he entered and seated himself in the reception hall.
"She may not be home to luncheon," faltered the maid. "If you could——"
"My time is my own," interrupted Theodore. "Mrs. Thorpe expected me, so I'll wait."