“For Heaven’s sake, come in, Kit!” he said. “I need a cool head. Didn’t I tell you this is my calamity day?”
“Cook gone?” I asked with interest. I was starving.
He closed the door and took up a tragic attitude in front of the fire. “Did you ever hear of Aunt Selina?” he demanded.
“I knew there WAS one,” I ventured, mindful of certain gossip as to whence Jimmy derived the Wilson income.
Jim himself was too worried to be cautious. He waved a brazen hand at the snug room, at the Japanese prints on the walls, at the rugs, at the teakwood cabinets and the screen inlaid with pearl and ivory.
“All this,” he said comprehensively, “every bite I eat, clothes I wear, drinks I drink—you needn’t look like that; I don’t drink so darned much—everything comes from Aunt Selina—buttons,” he finished with a groan.
“Selina Buttons,” I said reflectively. “I don’t remember ever having known any one named Buttons, although I had a cat once—”
“Damn the cat!” he said rudely. “Her name isn’t Buttons. Her name is Caruthers, my Aunt Selina Caruthers, and the money comes from buttons.”
“Oh!” feebly.
“It’s an old business,” he went on, with something of proprietary pride. “My grandfather founded it in 1775. Made buttons for the Continental Army.”