“What name?” she asked lightly, when Sheldon sat down to dinner.
He looked at her and smiled, but it was a very wan and wistful smile.
“My word,” she went on. “One big fella talk. Sun he go down—talk-talk; sun he come up—talk-talk; all the time talk-talk. What name that fella talk-talk?
“Oh, nothing much.” He shrugged his shoulders. “They were trying to buy Berande, that was all.”
She looked at him challengingly.
“It must have been more than that. It was you who wanted to sell.”
“Indeed, no, Miss Lackland; I assure you that I am far from desiring to sell.”
“Don’t let us fence about it,” she urged. “Let it be straight talk between us. You’re in trouble. I’m not a fool. Tell me. Besides, I may be able to help, to—to suggest something.”
In the pause that followed, he seemed to debate, not so much whether he would tell her, as how to begin to tell her.
“I’m American, you see,” she persisted, “and our American heritage is a large parcel of business sense. I don’t like it myself, but I know I’ve got it—at least more than you have. Let us talk it over and find a way out. How much do you owe?”