"I—I," the girl finally attained a quick, flurried utterance, "want to thank you for—for having this—this talk with me."
"What do you want to talk about, Miss Sloane?"
The low, metallic voice was neither friendly nor hostile. It expressed, more than anything else, a sardonic, bullying self-sufficiency.
It both angered and encouraged Lucille. She perceived the futility of polite, introductory phrases here; she could go straight to her purpose, be brutally frank. She gave Mrs. Brace a brilliant, disarming smile, a proclamation of fellowship. Her confidence was restored.
"I'm sure we can talk sensibly together, Mrs. Brace," she explained, dissembling her indignation. "We can get down to business, at once."
"What business?" inquired the older woman, with some of the manner Hastings had seen, an air of lying in wait.
"I said, on the 'phone, it was something of advantage to you—didn't I?"
"Yes; you said that."
"And, of course, I want something from you."
"Naturally."