The discreet Jap servant opened the door, and seemed to whisper, “Mis’ Bumble Bee.”
“Oh, how do you do?” Hildegarde went quickly forward and shook hands with a tiny, weather-beaten woman.
“I heard on the water front you wus askin’ for me,” said the new-comer, looking very shy and embarrassed.
“Oh!” Mrs. Mar was on her feet. “Is this Mrs. Blumpitty?” Before that little person knew what had happened, she was on the other side of the room, shrinking into the extreme corner of a big, red satin sofa—not unlike some sort of insect hiding in the heart of a poppy. But it was idle trying to escape from Mrs. Mar. She prodded her prisoner with pointed questions, and there was no manner of doubt but “Mis’ Bumble Bee” was intensely frightened. But she must have come out of the ordeal uncommon well, for the catechist rose at the end of a quarter of an hour (breaking in upon Harry’s glib exposition of the huge difficulty in these days of floating a gold mining scheme). “Your wife and I have been arranging things,” said Mrs. Mar, with a suddenness that made Blumpitty blink. “My daughter must go on your ship.”
“But, mama—”
“Mrs. Blumpitty says she will look after you on board.”
“Yes,” agreed the rusty wife, a little breathless. “And if she doesn’t find her father just at first she can stay with us, can’t she?”
Blumpitty, thus appealed to, said, “Ya-as,” so entirely without enthusiasm, that his wife added, “He said to me after we’d talked with your daughter, ‘It’s a pity she ain’t goin’ on the Los Angeles. We could ’a’ helped her.’”
“Well, she is going on the Los Angeles.”
“No, mama, the Congress.”