“Yes.” Her voice was the thin cry of a quail.
“You must like our little picture gallery, eh?”
“Oh! Oh!” She caught at the edge of his desk and tears lay heavy in her eyes.
“Eh?”
“Yes; I—I like it. I wanna buy it for my yacht.”
Her ghastly simulacrum of a jest died in her throat; and he said quickly, a big blush suffusing his face:
“I was only fooling, missy. You ain’t got the scare, have you?”
“The scare?”
“Yes; the bug? You ain’t afraid you’ve ate the germ, are you?”
“I—I dunno.”