“Pretty entertainment, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, O’Brien, see you Monday; hope we get on.” Mr. Blankinship nodded pleasantly and passed up the room to the punch, muttering as he went, “Writes better than talks—dash of genius—more or less timid than a coot.”
Aladdin went quickly to find Margaret. He traced her to the pantry, where she was hurrying the servant who had charge of the ice-cream. Aladdin waited until the servant had gone out with a heaping tray.
“Margaret,” he said, “I’m going away to live.”
He spoke in the flat, colorless voice with which a little child announces that it has hurt itself.
“What do you mean, Aladdin?” She changed color slightly.
“Only that I’ve got to make a living, Margaret, and it’s on a paper, so I ought to be glad.”
“Aren’t you glad, Aladdin?”
“A little.”