"Oh," she said demurely, "to-night or to-morrow night I shall rouse the household with screams, and claim that I woke and saw a man bending over my dressing-table—a man with a beautiful white mustache and imperial."
Mr. Hemingway's right hand flew to his mouth as if to hide these well-ordered appendages, and he laughed.
"Is the truth nothing to you?" he said.
"In a business matter pure and simple," she said, after a moment's reflection, "it is nothing—absolutely nothing."
"Not being found out by one's parents is hardly a business matter," said Mr. Hemingway.
"Oh," said she with a shiver, "as a little girl I went into the hands of a receiver at least once a month——"
"A hand of iron in a velvet glove," murmured Mr. Hemingway.
"Oh, no," she said, "a leather slipper in a nervous hand.... But how can I thank you?"
She rose, still demure and cool, but with a strong sparkling in her eyes as from a difficult matter successfully adjusted.