“What’s wrong with my doing that?” she asked defensively.
“Nothing at all, dear—nothing at all: only just remember that no matter what his song is nor how soft he sings it, he’s an old goat in a canary’s skin.”
“I believe I can manage him,” she returned confidently.
“I hope so, Mary—I hope so. But he’s descended from one of the first families of Sodom and Gomorrah, and he’s a wise party, and he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it, and he usually gets it, too.”
Uncle George paused a moment, then added: “Excuse my seeing it, dear—I’ve got the habit of seeing things and can’t break it. But did you notice that he put something in your bag?”
“No.”
“Then if you don’t believe my old eyes, you might take a look for yourself.”
She opened her bag. There was the envelope Mr. Morton had slipped into it, unsealed and fat. Surprised, she drew from the envelope a folded packet of bills and rapidly fingered them.
“Ten one-thousand-dollar bills!” she breathed.
Uncle George nodded. “Just so. That’s how he sings a little love song. But he can sing a lot of different sorts of songs, and he’s a swell performer at a lot of other acts besides singing. That’s all, Mary—except here’s hoping you beat him in the end. But, though you’re clever, I’m not placing any bets on you. Good-bye, dear.”