"Good evening, Miss Emsdale," he said, in a palliative tone. "Have this chair. Ahem!" Catching a look from his wife, he sat down again, and laughed quite loudly and mirthlessly, no doubt actuated by a desire to put the governess at her ease,—an effort that left him rather flat and wholly non-essential, it may be said.
His wife lifted her lorgnon. She seemed a bit surprised and nonplussed on beholding Miss Emsdale.
"Oh, I remember. It is you, of course."
Miss Emsdale had the effrontery to smile. "Yes, Mrs. Smith-Parvis."
Stuyvesant felt of his nose. He did it without thinking, and instantly muttered something under his breath.
"We owe you, according to my calculations, fifty-five dollars and eighty-two cents," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis, abruptly consulting a tablet. "Seventeen days in this month. Will you be good enough to go over it for yourself? I do not wish to take advantage of you."
"I sha'n't be exacting," said Miss Emsdale, a wave of red rushing to her brow. "I am content to accept your—"
"Be good enough to figure it up, Miss Emsdale," insisted the other coldly. "We must have no future recriminations. Thirty-one days in this month. Thirty-one into one hundred goes how many times?"
"I beg pardon," said the girl, puzzled. "Thirty-one into one hundred?"
"Can't you do sums? It's perfectly simple. Any school child could do it in a—in a jiffy."