“I never saw him so closely,” she declared. “Really, he’s quite distinguished-looking.”
“As long as he avoids a close shave,” supplemented Bobby. “But what brings you into the—the busy marts of trade so early in the morning?”
“My trusteeship,” she answered him loftily, producing some documents from her hand-bag. “And I’m in a hurry. Sign them papers.”
“Them there papers,” he kindly corrected, and seating himself at his desk he examined the minor transfers perfunctorily and signed them.
“I’m afraid I’m a failure as a trustee,” she told him. “I ought to have had more power. I ought to have been authorized to keep you out of bad company. How came Mr. Sharpe to call on you, for instance?”
“To make my fortune,” he gravely assured her. “Mr. Sharpe wants me to go into the Brightlight Electric Company with him.”
“I can imagine your courteous adroitness in putting the man back in his place,” she laughed. “How preposterous! Why, he’s utterly impossible!”
“Ye-e-es?” questioned Bobby. “But you know, Agnes, this isn’t a pink-tea affair. It’s business, which is at the other end of the world.”
“You’re not honestly defending him, Bobby?” she protested incredulously. “Why, I do believe you are considering the man seriously!”
“Why not?” he persisted, arguing against his own convictions as much as against hers. “We want me to make some money, don’t we? To make a success that will let me marry you?”