"Don't be absurd," she laughed. "You'll be rich before you know it. But that isn't the point. Lots of other things you'll see in a new way. You've been a sentimentalist, Ranny," she went on explaining. "Business gives a man judgment instead of sentimentality. You'll come to understand that my advice to you in a number of things, including the children, had more sense to it then you guessed. You will recognize that even children can be cared for better by efficient people trained for it than by an inexperienced bachelor and a little foundling girl. Don't worry about that now," she added hastily, "but you'll find out."
My answering grin must have been of a sickly pallid hue, for I own I felt myself chilling at her words.
"I thought," I put in, "that that was all over and settled between us."
"So it is, Ranny dear," she answered quickly. "Don't misunderstand. I am not advising now. I am merely prophesying."
"Oh, in that case," I endeavored to be conciliatory, "it will be a pleasant game to watch how true your prophecy comes."
"Yes," she spoke more eagerly. "Now tell me about your business. It must be horribly interesting."
"It horribly is," I agreed, "and fearfully done." And I went on to describe to her amusement some of the ways and means of the ingenious Fred Salmon.
"How delightful," was her laughing comment. "Do you know, Ranny, when we're married I mean to come down to your office quite often?"
"Better come now," I suggested. "Who knows—whether there'll be an office by then?"
"Oh, it isn't so long to wait—perhaps in—June—or when you take your holiday."