Mannering smiled lazily. “Odd how I don’t influence my offspring,” he commented impersonally. “I didn’t want Eric to sell those rubies, but he would. And I suppose that length of mediæval saint, lined throughout with pure paganism, squatting on the lawn like a toad—I suppose Honor will do exactly as her mature judgment decides. Won’t you, Honor?”
“Uh-huh,” the girl agreed.
“There’s one thing—you won’t get two thousand dollars out of me, or one thousand, for a musical education, for I haven’t got it. What are you going to do about that?”
“I’m going to earn it.” The young lips set tight as her gray glance shot up to the man’s lazy eyes.
“How?”
“A job.”
“What?”
“Secretary for Mr. Barron.”
Mannering whistled softly. He smiled, amused. “When?”
“Monday.”