“What is it, Mr. Hennen?” I asked. “Please tell me quickly.”
“Oh, of course it can be arranged. I had meant to ask you to defer coming until the first of December. Miss O’Dowd’s wedding has been postponed until Christmas. But——”
Returning waves of warmth lapped me. After all, I was not to go penniless and positionless back to Agonquitt.
“Oh, is that all?” I cried, in relief. “I think I can put in the two months to excellent advantage, Mr. Hennen.”
“Do you, really?” He brightened. “Are you—er—prepared—er——”
“Oh, quite,” I said, stiffly, though the emergency fund on my chest no longer seemed the oppressive weight it once had.
“If not——” he floundered, evidently groping with some idea for my relief.
I felt the color tingle in my cheeks. My mother’s hatred of “Letitia Bland’s” favors seemed to stiffen my neck.
“Oh, but I am,” I declared. Then the door opened simultaneously with a rap. From the Axminster and rosewood splendors of the outer office a man entered—tall, broad, lithe. His eyes, even in that first flash of them upon me, I knew to be gay, and his smooth-shaven lips had lines of laughter about them. He glanced at me with a momentary pause in his entrance.
“Beg pardon, George. Ferritt said you were alone.”