“I thought I knew my girl, too,” the mother declared, gloomily. “But I guess I don't. I never saw her stiffen up like this before. She sat and looked at me, and I felt like a cushion being jabbed by a couple of hatpins—if there's any such thing as a cushion having feelings.” Mrs. Harnden, settling her flounces, a soft and sighing example of “a languishing Lydia,” was as unfortunate in her metaphor as Britt had been when he mentioned a bitter medicine.
“Tell her that I'll pay her ten dollars more a week,” said President Britt, looking desperate. “She mustn't leave me in the lurch.”
“She'll do it! Nothing to worry about!” affirmed the father. “And I'll grab in as cashier till my bigger projects get started. I've got a natural knack for handling money, Tasper.”
The banker winced.
“We can make it all snug, right in the family,” insisted Harnden. He jumped up, opened the door into the hallway, and called. He kept calling, his tones growing more emphatic, till the girl replied from abovestairs.
“She's coming down,” reported the general manager of the household, taking his stand in front of the fireplace. He pulled on a chain and dragged out a bunch of keys and whirled them like a David taking aim with a sling.
Vona came no farther than the doorway, and stood framed there.
“What's this last nonsense—that you won't go to your work in the morning?”
“Your pay is raised ten dollars a week, starting to-morrow,” supplemented Britt, appealingly.
But there was no compromise in the girl's mien. “Mr. Britt, I realize perfectly well that I ought to give you due notice—the usual two weeks. That would be the honorable business way. But you have set the example of disregarding business methods, in your treatment of Mr. Vaniman. You mustn't blame others for doing as you're doing. Therefore I positively will not come into the bank, as conditions are. As I feel to-night I shall feel to-morrow! If you, or my father and mother, think you can change my mind on the matter, you'll merely waste your arguments.”