Then with a glance of inquiry, he said, "Edith Parker?"
"Why, don't you know her?" I asked.
"I know a half a hundred Parkers," he replied. "I may know Edith Parker, but I can't recall her."
"This one is your book-keeper's daughter," I said with considerable heat.
"Indeed," said he calmly. "Parker—Parker—I thought our book-keeper's name was Smyth. Yes—I'm quite sure it's Smyth."
"But Tim says it's Parker," said I. "Tim ought to know."
"Tim should know," laughed Weston. "I guess he does know better than I. A minute ago I would have sworn it was Smyth; but to tell the truth, I never gave any attention to such details of business. Well, Edith is my book-keeper's daughter."
"She lives in Brooklyn," said I, "and she is very beautiful. Every letter I get from Tim, the more beautiful she becomes, for in all my life I never heard of a fellow as frank as he is. Usually men hide what sentiment they have except from a few women, but his letters make me blush when I read them."
"They are so full of gush," said Weston, calmly smoking.
He seemed very indifferent, and to be more listening to the cries of the dogs working around the hollow than to the affairs of the Hope family.