"A martyr, eh, Boy?" The Doctor looked amused.
"Well, rather—at times."
"Don't mind Jamie's martyrdoms, Doctor Rugvie; tell me when you want me to be ready."
"In half an hour. I don't want to start too late; be sure to take enough wraps."
I left them to go upstairs, wondering on the way what wraps I should take—I, who possessed only sufficient clothing to help out a New York winter, but no furs, no fur coat, no warm moccasins, no mittens, only an unlined gray tweed ulster that with a grey sweater had done duty for four years.
"I want my pay more than I want a pung ride," I growled, as I was trying to make the one thick veil I owned do double duty for head and ears protector. I folded a square of newspaper and laid it over my chest under my sweater; I put on two pairs of stockings. Thus fortified against the Canadian cold, I went downstairs promptly on time.
Mr. Ewart came out into the passageway; the Doctor was talking with Mrs. Macleod in the living-room.
"Why, Miss Farrell," he exclaimed, "I see you don't realize our climate; you can't go without more wraps—"
He hesitated, grew visibly embarrassed. I knew by his manner he had unwittingly probed my poverty to the quick, and I crimsoned with shame; yes, I was ashamed that my lack should thus be made known to him—ashamed as when Delia Beaseley's keen eyes read my need of money.
"Oh, I don't need to bundle up—I have been accustomed to go without such heavy clothing," I said, with ready lie to cover my confusion.