"Do you remember
the dinner we had at the St. Nicholas in Cincinnati?" asked she.
"It wasn't as good as this," declared he. "Not nearly so well
cooked. You could make a fortune as a cook. But then you do
everything well."
"Even to rouging my lips?"
"Oh, forget it!" laughed he. "I'm an ass. There's a
wonderful fascination in the contrast between the dash of
scarlet and the pallor of that clear, lovely skin of yours."
Her eyes danced. "You are getting well!" she exclaimed. "I'm
sorry I bought you clothes. I'll be uneasy every time you're out."
"You can trust me. I see I've got to hustle to keep my job
with you. Well, thank God, your friend Brent's old enough to
be your father."
"Is he?" cried Susan. "Do you know, I never thought of his age."
"Yes, he's forty at least--more. Are you sure he isn't after
_you_, Susie?"
"He warned me that if I annoyed him in that way he'd discharge me."
"Do you like him?"
"I--don't--know" was Susan's slow, reflective answer.
"I'm--afraid of him--a little."
Both became silent. Finally Rod said, with an impatient shake
of the head, "Let's not think of him."
"Let's try on your new clothes," cried Susan.
And when the dishes were cleared away they had a grand time
trying on the things she had bought. It was amazing how near
she had come to fitting him. "You ought to feel flattered,"
said she. "Only a labor of love could have turned out so well.
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