The blue eyes danced. "My daughter seems interested in her. And I have a mother's anxiety."
Tottie was blessed with a sense of humor, but she conquered her desire to laugh. The daughter in question was a woman older than herself; under the circumstances, a "mother's anxiety" was hardly deserving of sympathy. Nevertheless, the landlady answered in a voice that was deep with condolence. "Oh, I understand how y' feel," she declared.
"We know very little about her. I wonder—can you—tell me—something."
Tottie let her eyes fall—to the modish dress, with its touches of lace; to a pearl-and-amethyst brooch that held Mrs. Milo's collar; to the fresh gloves and the smart shoes. She recognized good taste even though she did not choose to subscribe to it; also, she recognized cost values. She looked up with a mysterious smile. "Well," she said slowly, "I don't like to—knock anybody."
"A-a-ah!" triumphed the elder woman; "I thought so!—Now, you won't let me be imposed upon! Please! Quick!" A white glove was laid on a chiffon sleeve.
"Sh!—Later! Later!" The landlady drew away, pointing toward the back-parlor warningly. The situation was to her taste. She seemed to be a part of one of those very scenes for which her soul yearned—melodramatic scenes such as she had witnessed across footlights, with her husky-voiced favorite in the principal role.
"I'll come back," whispered Mrs. Milo.
"No. I'll 'phone you." With measured tread, Tottie stalked to the double door, her eyes shifting, and one hand outstretched with spraddling fingers to indicate caution.
Mrs. Milo trotted after her. "But I think I'd better come back."
Tottie whirled. "What's your 'phone number?"