Then she sat down in a deep chair and took account of stock. That “fat-forty” was a mere panic. She would not think of it––but it loomed, nevertheless.
Of course, for the time being, there was Sandy Arnold on the crest of one of his financial waves.
Kathryn was level-headed enough not to lose sight of receding waves but then, on the other hand, the crest of a receding wave was better than to be left on the sands––fat and forty! And Northrup was displaying dangerous traits. A distinct chill shook Kathryn.
She turned her thought to Northrup. Northrup had seemed safe. He belonged to all that was familiar to her. He would be famous some day––that she might interfere with this never occurred to the girl. She simply saw herself in a gorgeous studio pouring tea or dancing, and all the people paying court to her while knowing that they ought to be paying it to Northrup.
“But he always gets a grubby hole to work in.” Kathryn fidgeted. “I daresay he is working now in some smudgy old place.”
But this thought did not last. She could insist upon the studio. A man owes his wife something if he will have his way about his job.
Just at this point a tap on the door brought a frown to Kathryn’s smooth forehead.
“Oh! come in,” she called peevishly.
A drab-coloured woman of middle age entered. She was one of the individuals so grateful for being noticed at all that her cheerfulness was a constant reproach. She had been selected by Kathryn’s father to act as housekeeper and chaperon. As the former she was a gratifying success; as the latter, a joke and one to be eliminated as much as possible.