"That is an object which in international currency exchange we call a draft—the equivalent of my wages, Jamie; in other words, payment for industrial efficiency; do you hear?"
"My, but you are a mercenary woman! One of the kind we read of in the States," he retorted.
"Wait till you get your first check for royalties from London, then use that word and tone to me again if you dare."
Mr. Ewart opened the door of the office.
"What's this I hear about the Doctor and mercenary tendencies—the two don't go together as I happen to know." He spoke from the threshold.
Jamie showed him the envelope, holding it high above my head.
"This, Ewart, is the compensation for sundry days of so-called labor on the part of Miss Farrell—drives, snow-shoeing, tobogganing with Cale not discounted, of course. Shall I read it, Marcia?"
"For all I care."
Mr. Ewart looked on smiling at our chaff.
"It's on the First National Bank of New York, Ewart, for the amount of fifty-two dollars and eighty-seven cents—how 's that about the cents, Marcia?"