“What?” he asked, smiling in sympathy. “Why, that you should be paying three dollars and a-half a week for the privilege of being a slave!” “Ah, but that’s it,” answered Winthrop. “It is a privilege, as you say.” “Oh!” cried Holly, in simulated alarm. “You’re at it again, Mr. Winthrop!” “At it? At what?” [128] [128] “Compliments, compliments, sir! You’ll have none left for this evening if you don’t take care. Just think; you might meet a beautiful young lady this evening and not have any compliments for her! Wouldn’t that be dreadful?” “Horrible,” answered Winthrop. “I shudder.” “Are you hungry?” asked Holly, suddenly. “Hungry? No—yes—I hardly know.” “You’re probably starving, then,” said Holly, jumping up and sweeping the roses into her arms. “I’ll see if breakfast isn’t nearly ready. Auntie doesn’t come down to breakfast very often, and it’s my place to see that it’s on time. But I never do, and it never is. Do you love punctuality, Mr. Winthrop?” “Can’t bear it, Miss Holly.” She stood a little way off, smiling down at him, a soft flush in her cheeks. “You always say just the right thing, don’t you?” She laughed. “How do you manage it?” [129] [129] “Long practice, my dear young lady. When you’ve lived as long as I have you will have discovered that it is much better to say the right thing than the wrong—even when the right thing isn’t altogether right.” “Yes, I reckon so, but—sometimes it’s an awful temptation to say the wrong, isn’t it? Are you awfully old? May I guess?”
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