“Why, of course I shall. You may dismiss that from your mind. How fussy you are about money, Thea. You make such a point of it.” He turned sharply and walked to the windows.
Thea sat down in the chair he had quitted. “It’s only poor people who feel that way about money, and who are really honest,” she said gravely. “Sometimes I think that to be really honest, you must have been so poor that you’ve been tempted to steal.”
“To what?”
“To steal. I used to be, when I first went to Chicago and saw all the things in the big stores there. Never anything big, but little things, the kind I’d never seen before and could never afford. I did take something once, before I knew it.”
Fred came toward her. For the first time she had his whole attention, in the degree to which she was accustomed to having it. “Did you? What was it?” he asked with interest.
“A sachet. A little blue silk bag of orris-root powder. There was a whole counterful of them, marked down to fifty cents. I’d never seen any before, and they seemed irresistible. I took one up and wandered about the store with it. Nobody seemed to notice, so I carried it off.”
Fred laughed. “Crazy child! Why, your things always smell of orris; is it a penance?”
“No, I love it. But I saw that the firm didn’t lose anything by me. I went back and bought it there whenever I had a quarter to spend. I got a lot to take to Arizona. I made it up to them.”
“I’ll bet you did!” Fred took her hand. “Why didn’t I find you that first winter? I’d have loved you just as you came!”
Thea shook her head. “No, you wouldn’t, but you might have found me amusing. The Harsanyis said yesterday afternoon that I wore such a funny cape and that my shoes always squeaked. They think I’ve improved. I told them it was your doing if I had, and then they looked scared.”