“You should join the Humane Society,” observed Mr. Scott, sarcastically.
“The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children will rescue you from my clutches if you persist in coming here all the time,” she retorted, severely. “I’ll tell you what I am going to do”—changing the subject, swiftly. “I’ll answer the Willoughby epistle in person. I’ll go down to Rosemount to-morrow and tell them things that I hope will do them good. I do not intend to reduce my bills, or live with them. Whenever I get a letter from them like this last one, I go out and buy something.”
“What did you buy yesterday?” queried Mr. Scott, with lively interest.
“A pair of high-boys—genuine colonials! I’ve no place for them here, of course, but the Willoughbys needed them for a lesson.”
“Let me drive you down to Rosemount in my car,” said Mr. Scott, with sudden inspiration.
“Um—I’d like the car and the chauffeur, but you, Billie, cannot come. It might cause gossip.”
“Let ’em talk, who cares?” exclaimed Mr. Scott, defiantly.
“I do,” said Jane, decidedly. “No, you can’t come, Billie, but if you’ll have the car here to-morrow, at ten, I’ll drive down in it, stay all night, and come back the next day.”
“I’m afraid they’ll persuade you to live with them,” murmured Mr. Scott, miserably.
“To think that you would say that to me,” said Jane, reproachfully. “I intend to live alone from this time on. I hate living with anybody.”