"Do you mean you don't think I charge enough?" Tom's eyes opened wide. He had felt as if he were robbing those men when he counted up the sum total.
"Ever dine at the Arcadia?—or the Princess?"
"No."
"They do."
Tom did not know the prices at these imposing popular hotels in the nearby city, but he supposed they were high. He felt as if he were the greenest innkeeper who ever invited the patronage of city guests.
"Would you advise me to put up the price?" Tom asked presently, with some hesitation.
Perkins glanced at him out of those worn, brilliant, black eyes of his, which looked as if they had seen more of the world than Tom's ever would see in the longest life he could live, though Perkins himself could hardly be over forty, perhaps not quite that.
"Not yet, son," said he. "By and by—yes. But keep up the quality now—and then."
That evening a young man, whom Tom recognized as one of the party of the night before, the one who had waved to him as he had driven away, appeared again. He came in a runabout this time and brought two women, who proved to be his mother and sister. The young man himself—Mr. Haskins—smiled genially at Tom, and said by way of explanation:
"I liked your place so well I brought them up to see if my fairy tales were true."