“Theo—I mean Mr. King,” stammered Jinnie.
Molly turned so quickly to look at the girl’s reddening face that the car almost described a circle.
“You call him by his first name, then?” she asked, with a sharp backward turn of the wheel.
“No,” denied Jinnie, extremely confused. “Oh, no! Only—only––”
“Only what?”
“When I think of him, then I do. Theodore’s such a pretty name, isn’t it?”
Molly bit her lip. Here was the niece of a cobbler who dared to think familiarly of a man in high social position. She had tried to make herself believe Theo was simply philanthropic, but now the more closely she examined the beautiful face of the girl, the more she argued with herself, the greater grew her fear.
“What does he call you?” Molly spoke amiably, as if discussing these unimportant little matters for mere politeness’ sake. 165
“Mostly Jinnie,” was the prompt reply. “I’m just Jinnie to every one who loves me.”
She said this without thought of its import. Angrily Molly sent the motor spinning along at a higher rate. She was growing to hate the little person at her side.