She was silent for almost a minute, her eyes incredulously on him. "Mr. David Aldrich," she remarked slowly, "you're a fool!"
He was startled—and his wonderment about her returned. "I've often said the same," he agreed. "But do you mind telling why you think so?"
"A man that can make his hundreds a week, works for his living at five."
He assumed such innocence of appearance as he could command. "I'm a little surprised to hear this, especially from a woman who also works for her living."
Her look of wonderment gave place to a queer little smile. "Hum!" She straightened up. "D'you mind if I smoke?" she asked abruptly, drawing a silver cigarette case from a pocket of her skirt.
The women David had known had not smoked. But he said "no" and accepted a cigarette when she offered him the open box. She struck a match, held the flame first to him, then lit her own cigarette.
She drew deeply. "To-day's the first time I've dared smoke for a month. Ah, but it's good!"
She stared again at David, and now with that penetrating gaze of her last visit. A minute passed. David grew very uncomfortable. Then she announced abruptly: "You're on the dead level!"
The queer little smile came back. "Yes, I work for my living. And I keep my flat, keep my father, dress myself, have plenty of money for good times, and put aside enough so that I can knock off work whenever I like—all on a maid's twenty a month. And how do you suppose I do it?"
David wondered what was coming next, but did not answer. A fear that had been creeping into his mind suddenly grew into definiteness.