Mr. Hemingway affected gruffness.
"I am thanking God fervently, ma'am," said he, "that you didn't ask me for more. You'll have to give me your note. By the way, are you of age?"
Her charming eyes narrowed, and she laughed at him.
"People," she said, "are already beginning to say, 'she will hardly marry now.' But it's how old we feel, Mr. Hemingway, isn't it?"
"I feel about seven," said he, "and foolish at that."
"And I," said she, "will be twenty-five for the second time on my next birthday."
"And, by the way," she said, when the details of the loan had been arranged and she had stuffed the five thousand dollars into the palm of a wash glove, "nobody must know about this, because I shall have to say that—my gewgaws have been stolen."
"But that will give Aiken a black eye," said he.
"I'm afraid it can't be helped, Mr. Hemingway. Papa will ask point-blank why I never wear the pearls he gave me, and I shall have to anticipate."
"How?" he asked.