“Yes, that must have been embarrassing,” agreed Mary Louise. She was thinking of David McCall’s accusation—that Clifford set the bungalow on fire himself to get the insurance—and it seemed absurd to her. He certainly would have chosen a more convenient time.
“What did you do the next day?” she inquired.
“Mother and I went to our New York apartment, and the fellows went home. I put in a claim for the insurance, and after we had bought new summer outfits, we came back here and took a suite at the Royal. We expect to stay there all summer.”
“Why not Flicks’?” was Mary Louise’s next question. “Everybody goes there.”
“That’s just why we didn’t. They’re so overcrowded, and Mother likes plenty of room. We sure get that at the Royal. The hotel’s practically empty; I don’t see how poor Frazier can pay his taxes.”
“He charges too much,” said Mary Louise. “If he’d be content to make a small profit, the way Mr. Flick does, he’d probably fill his hotel.”
“Well, it’s an expensive place to keep up. Mother feels sorry for him, so she’s entertaining a lot to bring him some business.”
“I don’t feel sorry for him! I don’t like him. Remember that time we wanted to give an entertainment for the Red Cross and he tried to charge us fifty dollars for using his dining room? So we held it outdoors instead!”
Clifford nodded. “Yes. But he says he’s poor.”
“So poor he can’t pay his waitresses a living wage! Hattie Adams—you remember, Jane, the girl who waited on our table at Flicks’?—said he tried to pay her two dollars a week and excused himself by telling her she’d make a lot on tips! She gets ten at Flicks’!”