"It isn't my hair-dresser's library!" I corrected with faint asperity. "It's her own library! She brings the books herself to the office.
"And just what part," drawled my Husband, "is this New Zealand paragon, Miss Stoltor, to play in our Rainy Week?"
"Woltor," I corrected quite definitely. "Ann Woltor."
"Wardrobe mistress?" teased my Husband. "Or——?"
"She is going to play the part of the Someone With a Past," I said.
"What?" cried my Husband. His face was frankly shocked. "What?" he repeated blankly. "The most delicate part of the cast? The most difficult? The most hazardous? It seemed best to you, without consultation, without argument, to act so suddenly in the matter, and so—so all alone?"
"I had to act very suddenly," I admitted. "If I hadn't spoken just exactly the minute I did she would have been off to Alaska within another forty-eight hours."
"U-m-m," mused my Husband, and resumed his reading. But the half-inch of eye brow that puckered above the edge of his newspaper loomed definitely as the sample of a face that was still distinctly shocked.
When he spoke again I was quite ready for his question.
"How do you know that this Ann Woltor has got a past?" he demanded.