"There's that harness of his," went on the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. He thought a moment, pursing his lips and twiddling his thumbs. "We'll have to consider how we can get rid of it."
She glanced up. "Where does he come?" she asked huskily; "my fath-er?"
"Um! Yes, where?" He seemed uneasy; scratched his jaw; and rearranged a row of chins. "Well, the fact is, he comes here to—er—buy candles that burn at both ends."
"Of course. Is it far?"
"Out in a new fashionable addition—yes, addition, subtraction, multiplication."
"You won't mind showing me the way?" Now her face grew pale with earnestness.
He smiled sadly. "I? Your father thinks poorly of me. He's driven me off the block once or twice, you know. Though"—he looked away thoughtfully—"when you come to think of it there isn't such a lot of difference between your father and me. He makes money: I make faces."
It was one of those unpleasant moments when there seemed very little to be said. She stood on the other foot.
He began polishing once more. "Then there's that bee," he resumed—
"Moth-er."