She shook her head dubiously. “What else?” she asked.
“Oh, such things as investments. Ground in the new additions, where the values are going up fast. Such things.”
Bonnie May put up a restraining hand. “That will do,” she said. “Now tell me what chance you have of seeing Flora when you—when you haven’t got your pencil behind your ear.”
“Why, there’s church. I can always go to church. They make a real to-do over me there. They like to come to me for subscriptions, you know.”
At the word church she looked at him with quickened interest. “Did they try to put over anything on you the first time you went there?” she asked.
“Not a thing.”
“That’s funny.” She put her own experiences out of her mind. “Well,” she resumed, “why don’t you go to church regularly and let them see how nice and friendly you look when you haven’t got your make-up on?”
“I’ve thought of that. But you see, it doesn’t seem quite honest. As I understand it, church is mostly for singing, and I couldn’t carry a tune any more than a bird could carry a bank-account. I’d feel like an impostor if I went.”
Bonnie May, sitting bolt upright in her chair, put her hand on her heart and moved her head, carefully erect, as far forward as possible, without changing the attitude of her shoulders.
“I greet you,” she said. “I can’t sing, either.”