Mr. Warner looked at her with his brows knit.
“How much is the house worth? Fifty thousand?”
“Forty-five, wasn’t it?”
“I’ll see about your mortgage, Cecily, but you must promise not to sell it or do anything further without consulting me.”
She thanked him and promised and left the office, conscious as she was nowadays that a buzz of comment and gossip followed her. Mr. Warner, watching from the window, saw that she was not driving a car, saw her cross the street on foot.
“Steel underneath,” he said aloud.
At noon he met Dick at the club and called him. “Do you know Cecily is mortgaging her house?”
“Hell! And I deposited money to her credit last month.”
“She won’t touch it, Dick.”
“One of those ridiculous notions. The money isn’t important. I argued about that, Mr. Warner. I did my level best. It makes me feel a fool, you know.”