Barclay replaced the cover on the box before speaking again.
“I can’t blame you for firing her,” he said. “There’s nothing more aggravating than losing an article you value—through carelessness—cursed carelessness,” he added with suppressed bitterness, and Mrs. Ogden stared at him in surprise.
“It’s good of you, Julian, to take so much interest in my jar,” she said, much pleased. “And sometime when you are not busy, if you will stick the jar together....”
“Surely, surely,” he broke in. “Could you give me the girl’s full name and address, Cousin Jane, she....”
“Don’t tell me she has stolen something from you,” exclaimed Mrs. Ogden, interrupting in her turn.
“No, no,” Barclay moved restlessly. “Quite the contrary, she laundered some handkerchiefs for me, and I’d like to send her a tip.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” commented Mrs. Ogden dryly. “She can take that tip out in my broken jar. Rose was a better laundress than a parlor maid, although Mrs. Leonard McLane gave her an excellent reference. Don’t you want any breakfast?”
“Breakfast? Have you had yours?”
“Ages ago,” and her tone implied the feeling of virtuous satisfaction which accompanies early rising. “Run along into the dining room, Julian; you must be starved. Why, it’s nearly ten o’clock.”
“I’m not hungry,” protested Barclay, turning nevertheless toward the entrance to the dining room. “Coming this way, Cousin Jane?”