Part 13 (2/2)
”h.e.l.lo,” said Clayton, greeting her cordially. ”What's the trouble between you and Aunt Jane?”
”Trouble?” repeated Martha. ”There isn't any.”
”Then what did she mean by telephoning that you were getting a bit too wild for her?”
”She dared to say that?” exclaimed Martha, indignantly. ”Oh, and so she telephoned you to come and--and tame me--I suppose?”
”Not exactly that,” replied Clayton, smiling. ”She did 'phone me, but that was only in accordance with my instructions. I have always felt that, as I am responsible for your being in New York, it was my duty to look after you. But that is only part of our agreement, you know. I was to advance you all the money necessary, keeping a strict account of every penny, and you in return were to take my advice, and when you became famous--repay the loan.”
”When I become famous?” mused Martha, sinking onto the sofa. ”I wonder if I ever will?”
”Of course,” cried Clayton, encouragingly. ”And I want to help you all I can.”
Martha turned her large eyes toward him appealingly.
”Then why don't you come to see me oftener?” she asked softly.
”That wasn't in the agreement,” smiled Clayton. ”And I hardly thought you'd have any time for a mere man.”
”After all you've done for me, it would be strange if I didn't _take_ time for you,” replied Martha. Clayton s.h.i.+fted uneasily as she spoke.
”That sounds like 'Thank you, sir,'” he said.
”And I have to stop work sometimes, _to eat_,” added Martha, maliciously, and glancing at him as though trying to convey a subtle hint. ”And I hate to eat _alone_. I hate to eat dinner at Aunt Jane's _all_ the time. I've wanted to go out to dinner so many times since I've been in New York, but I _never_ had any one invite me, until to-day.”
”Hm! That's the cause of the row with Aunt Jane?”
”She didn't like the idea.”
”Some masculine admirer, of course?”
”Yes, he is,” replied Martha, defiantly.
”Who is he?”
As she turned away without response, Clayton added: ”Martha, who is he?”
”One you yourself introduced to me,” she replied shortly.
”I?” He pondered a moment, surprised. ”Not Sanford Gordon?” he said finally, and only by an effort suppressing a faint ”d.a.m.n.”
”Yes,” declared Martha. ”I am going out with him to dinner now.”
”Not with my consent,” declared Clayton, emphatically.
”And why not, please?”
”For many reasons,” he said, sitting beside her. ”Frankly, how long has this been going on?”
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