“Pshaw! I told ’em not to send it till after I’d gone!”
She paid this herself from her own allowance, but the bill for the garage was beyond her. It was going to cost six hundred dollars to repair Mr. Pendleton’s car.
“But he’ll pay it himself!” Bertie protested. “He’s a good sport. He knows I’m a young and inexperienced driver, and sure to have accidents.”
“I’m ashamed of you, Bertie, to think of such a thing. I shall have to tell your father, and I’m afraid he’ll be very angry.”
“I don’t believe in family rows. It might give him apoplexy. I should think you’d rather sell your jewels.”
But she did tell Gilbert, and he was furious. It was not a pleasant week-end, but it didn’t depress Bertie.
“I’m the reed, you know, Mammy, that bows its head to the storm,” he said. And the very next day, told her he wanted to, and was socially obliged to, give a dinner-party to some of his friends at the hotel.
“You can’t, my dear. Mrs. Dewey wouldn’t—”
“She says she will. I hinted at it. We can have it at eight, when the others have finished. She says she’ll do it in grand style, for my sake.”
“It would cost a great deal. Your father—”