"Faith, then, I'd best make myself invisible, lest when recognized I mayn't be seen." Scarlett turned to go.
"Oh, please remain," pleaded Maclane, "and help me advise with Miss Durant. Pending her father's arrival, she finds herself, er—financially embarrassed—or rather at a loss to proportion her finances to her wants in the style to which she is accustomed. Now what do you suggest?"
"The first word lies with you, Dominie." His back toward the two, Scarlett had seated himself on the veranda steps and was playing with Telegraph and Wrangel, who, after a series of critical sniffings, had taken him unreservedly into their favor.
"Oh, not with me; not with any son of man," hastily disclaimed Maclane, who quite forgot that he had tried to throw the responsibility on Scarlett. "First always comes prayer. Take your troubles, my daughter, to the Divine Footstool."
"Oh, of course," replied Evelyn, petulantly, "I always say my prayers, and make the responses in church. But just now I'm asking you how I am to pay for daily bread."
"Well," Scarlett considered, "I should advise—to begin with—well——"
"You've said well twice," Evelyn sharply pulled him up. "Best let well alone."
"Pardon," retorted Scarlett. "Truth lies at the bottom of my well."
In spite of herself Evelyn smiled, and perceiving his advantage he went on: "After all, well is the best beginning when you can't find a better. Why not for the present—just for a lark, you know—try roughing it?"
"Roughing it!" echoed Evelyn, in dismay. "Wouldn't that be a bit rough?"