He approached Tamea and fingered the material in her suit. “Do you think this is quite heavy enough, Maisie?” he queried anxiously. “Our climate is not quite so salubrious as our little queen is accustomed to.”
Tamea came close to him, grasping each lapel, gazing upward at him with frank approval and admiration.
“You would not care to have your Tamea die?” she queried.
“Indeed, my dear, I would not.”
“You would not care to have your Tamea put out of this warm house to suffer in the cold?”
“Certainly not.”
“You will never, never put Tamea away from you?”
“Great Scot, no! I promised your father I’d take care of you, child. What’s worrying you?”
Tamea sighed. “I have felt the necessity to leave this house,” she confessed, “unless assured that my orders to my servant will not be interfered with. Pippy grows very—well, what you call—fresh!”
Dan sensed the approach of a cyclone and hastily sought the cellar. “My dear Tamea,” he assured her, “it is conceivable that you may find me growing what you call fresh if you seek to impose your will on mine. Mrs. Pippy’s orders to the servants of this house must be obeyed by those servants. Meanwhile, try to be nice and—er—polite to Mrs. Pippy.”