"Oh no, ma'am. He's waiting, my lady."
Once in a while Frederick proved that he was worth his weight in gold by forgetting that he was in America. When he did, he always called Grace my lady.
She therefore went to the telephone. Of course H. R. was born lucky. But, as a matter of fact, by deliberately establishing Frederick on a plane of perennial inferiority he had made such a stroke of luck inevitable.
Since it was a matter of life and death, Grace instantly asked, "Who is it?"
"Listen, Grace. The entire country is going wild about you. Your portrait is being admired from Maine to California. But bear up with what's coming. We've got to bring father around to our way of thinking, and—"
"Who is it? Who is it?"
"Great Scott! Can't you recognize the voice? It's Hendrik."
Her exasperated nerves made her say, angrily, "I think you are—"
"Don't think I'm conceited, but I know it."
"I feel like telling you—"