Mrs. Belknap bristled with matronly dignity as she observed the girl's conscious face. "You may go now, Jane," she said, with an air of stern virtue. "But I wish to remind you once more that it is always best to tell the truth no matter how unpleasant the consequences may appear to you. If young girls in your situation in life could only learn that!"
Jane's eyes flickered and a shadowy dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. "Suppose one does tell the truth, ma'am, and it sounds so queer that other people will not believe it?" she asked.
"That," said Mrs. Belknap, magnificently, "is not apt to occur. A sincere person can hardly be mistaken by another sincere person. And the truth, Jane, never sounds queer!" Which aphorism may be accepted for what it is worth.
The Hon. Wipplinger Towle, for the time being, had taken up his abode upon Staten Island, in a certain pretentious hotel which overlooks the bay, and quite undaunted by his reception of the previous evening he again presented himself at the street and number furnished him by Bertha Forbes. On this occasion the door was opened by Jane herself in cap and apron.
The mutual start of amazement which followed shook both man and maid out of the chill precincts of the conventionalities.
"My God—Jane!" exclaimed Mr. Towle. "What are you doing in this house?"
This pertinent inquiry brought Jane to herself with all the speed and thoroughness of a dash of cold water. "I am working for my living," she replied haughtily.
Mr. Towle stared helplessly at the girl. "I have come," he said at last, "to fetch you home."