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"That don't signify I don't approve of it much." She wavered, and relented. "Still, I guess it's customary Theodore." Before he left her, they had staged their first altercation it could hardly be called a quarrel, because it was too one-sided. Mirabelle had asked him without the slightest trace of shyness, to telephone the glad tidings to the Herald; and of a sudden, Mr.
It was to dispose of this ridiculous property, and begin to make a living for Anna. And there was no time to lose, either, for Henry's checking balance was about to slide past the vanishing point. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to meet the gravely sympathetic eyes of Mr. Theodore Mix. Mr. Mix was fresh from an interview with Miss Mirabelle Starkweather.
And it seems he ain't closed the book on Mirabelle for good. He's rather interested in hearin' where she'll be waitin' at that hour and makes a note of it. "Much obliged for the tip, Torchy," says he. "I'll think it over." I hoped he would. It was the best I could do for Vincent, except hang around and 'phone out to Vee that probably I'd be late home for dinner.
Miss Mirabelle Starkweather lifted up her cup of tea, and with the little finger of her right hand stiffly extended to Mr. Mix's good health. Mr. Mix, sitting upright in a gilded chair which was three sizes too small for him, bowed with a courtliness which belonged to the same historical period as the chair, and also drank. Over the rim of his cup, his eyes met Mirabelle's.
"Impatience, as I've pointed out so often to Aunt Mirabelle, dries the blood more than age or sorrow. Yes, I'm mad, but I've put it on ice. I'm trying to work out some scheme to keep us in the running, and not give Mix too good an excuse to hoot at us. No they say it's darkest just before the dawn, so I'm trying to fix it so we'll be sitting on the front steps to see the sunrise.
Starkweather, alone in his office, drew a prodigious breath and slumped down in his chair, and fell to gazing out over the roof-tops. It was a fortnight, now, since Henry's last letter. He wished that Henry would write oftener. He told himself that one of Henry's impulsive, buoyant letters would furnish the only efficacious antidote to Mirabelle.
The downfall of Henry meant the elevation of Mirabelle. Mr. Mix himself could assist in swinging the balance. And he couldn't quite destroy a picture of Mirabelle, walking down the aisle out of step to the wedding march. Her arms were loaded with exotic flowers, of which each petal was a crisp yellow bank-bill. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to snort in deprecation, and he did neither.
"But look here," says I, "you you wouldn't let him go on with this, would you?" "I beg pardon?" says Mirabelle. "Still chattering, are you? Well, stretch your ear once, young feller. When I want your help in this I'll send out a call. If you don't get one you'll know you ain't needed. Here's your package, sir. Sixty cents, please." And I'm given the quick shunt, just like that.
It was a poor hunch, pullin' out that sympathy stop for Mirabelle. I knew that when I saw them black eyes of hers begin to give off sparks. "Listen, son," says she, "if you feel as bad as all that run down in the sub-cellar and sob in the coal bins. I'll be getting nervous, next thing I know, listening to ravings like that."
He admitted to himself that this was probably a foolish whim, a needless precaution, but nevertheless it obsessed him, so that he tried to argue Mirabelle away from the Herald. His most cogent argument was that the announcement might weaken their position in the League the League might be too much interested in watching the romance to pay strict attention to reform. "Humph!" said Mirabelle.
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