They bought things for her supper and her breakfast, and she also wanted a new pair of gloves, and asked the young man where she could get them. He did his best for her and carried the parcels, and explained that a florin was not the same as half a crown. She had given up Mrs. Bilson, who had overcharged her, and was now doing her own catering. “Just like you English,” she added gaily, and led the way to a shop where they sold Devonshire cream. This latter delicacy, it appeared, was “just lovely,” and not to be had at all in the United States.
“Won’t you come in?” she asked, when at last they reached her door.
The young man hesitated.
“Isn’t it proper?” inquired Miss Mamie.
The young man smiled.
“Well, I guess we’ll just be improper.”
The young man followed her into a sitting-room that overlooked the street.
Indoors, Mamie tucked up her sleeves and made a salad, and the young man sat on the sofa and watched her. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Baker—James Baker.”
“Always been at that old bank?”