“Oh, mother, please don’t do that!”
“Why not? How else am I to get them paid?”
“But, mother, the doctor said no money matters must be brought to father for at least a year and maybe not then. It was bills that made him ill, and bills would be so bad for him now.”
“Bills, indeed! It was overwork! I did my best to make him relax and not work so hard, but he would not listen to me. Many a time I tried to make him stop and go to the opera with me or to receptions, but it was always work, work, work!—day and night. I’m sure no one can accuse me of selfishness in the matter—I did my best.”
“Yes, dear, I know you did,” said Nan solemnly and gently, as though she were soothing a little child who had dropped a bowl of goldfish or done something equally disastrous and equally irreparable. “I tell you what you do, though, honey, you give me the bills. You see, I write all the letters for the camp and I will attend to them.”
Mrs. Carter handed over the offensive pile of envelopes with an air of washing her hands of the matter.
“There is one thing, mumsy: if I were you, I’d withdraw my patronage from such persons. I’d never favor tradespeople like these with another order.”
“Never!” exclaimed the mother. “‘Please Remit,’ indeed! I never imagined such impertinence.”
Nan bore off the sheaf of bills. They were not quite so large as they had feared. Mrs. Carter had unwittingly managed very well since she had accidentally struck August sales in New York and the things she had bought really were bargains.