"Is he young, old, good-looking, or what?"
Mrs. Chedsoye eyed her offspring through narrowed lids.
"I should say that he was about thirty-five, tall, something of an athlete; and there remains some indications that in the flush of youth he was handsome. Odd. He reminded me of a young man who was on the varsity eleven—foot-baller—when I entered my freshman year. I didn't know him, but I was a great admirer of his from the grand-stand. Horace Wadsworth was his name."
Horace Wadsworth. Fortune had the sensation of being astonished at something she had expected to happen.
Just before going down to dinner that night, Fortune turned to her mother, her chin combative in its angle.
"I gave Mr. Jones a hundred and fifty pounds out of that money you left in my care. Knowing how forgetful you are, I took the liberty of attending to the affair myself."
She expected a storm, but instead her mother viewed her with appraising eyes. Suddenly she laughed mellowly. Her sense of humor was too excitable to resist so delectable a situation.
"You told him, of course, that the money came from me?" demanded Mrs. Chedsoye, when she could control her voice.
"Surely, since it did come from you."
"My dear, my dear, you are to me like the song in The Mikado," and she hummed lightly—