"Oh Lord! Mary," said Charlie Fitzgerald, "is it going to be another of them?"
He was twenty years and more her junior, but she tolerated anything from the son of her favourite cousin; besides which, every one called her Mary, and if she was to be called Mary she would as soon be called Mary by an intimate younger relation as by the crowd of chance men and women of her own age who used her name so freely.
"Yes," went on Mrs. Smith with decision, "it's going to be another of them; and this time I hope you'll stick."
Her trim little body was full of energy as she said it, and her face full of determination.
"It's never been my fault," said Fitzgerald reproachfully. "Was it my fault that Isaacs got into trouble, or that old Burpham lost his temper about the motor-car?"
"The last was your fault certainly," answered his cousin vivaciously. "If you take a man's money, you mustn't use his motor-car without his leave."
"He's an old cad," yawned Fitzgerald lazily.
"Every one knows that," said Mrs. Smith, "and no one thinks the better of you for not understanding an old cad. It's a private secretary's business to understand.... You won't get anything from me, anyhow, I can tell you."
"You've said that before," said Charlie, looking down at her with a smile.
"Yes, and I have kept it, too," said Mary.