“But—my goodness!” Sally was alarmed. It was just like Fillmore, she felt, to go branching out into these expensive schemes when he ought to be moving warily and trying to consolidate the small success he had had. All his life he had thought in millions where the prudent man would have been content with hundreds. An inexhaustible fount of optimism bubbled eternally within him. “That's rather ambitious,” she said.
“Yes. Ambitious sort of cove, your brother. Quite the Napoleon.”
“I shall have to talk to him,” said Sally decidedly. She was annoyed with Fillmore. Everything had been going so beautifully, with everybody peaceful and happy and prosperous and no anxiety anywhere, till he had spoiled things. Now she would have to start worrying again.
“Of course,” argued Ginger, “there's money in revues. Over in London fellows make pots out of them.”
Sally shook her head.
“It won't do,” she said. “And I'll tell you another thing that won't do. This armchair. Of course it ought to be over by the window. You can see that yourself, can't you.”
“Absolutely!” said Ginger, patiently preparing for action once more.
2
Sally's anxiety with regard to her ebullient brother was not lessened by the receipt shortly afterwards of a telegram from Miss Winch in Chicago.
Have you been feeding Fillmore meat?