There was revolt, black revolt, in her smoldering eyes as she put the question to me.
"There's nothing about it, I suppose, if you can only get used to the prospect of some day being called Mrs. Mike!"
Her face colored with a flush of anger.
"That sounds as contemptible as some of the things Wendy Washburn said," she announced with considerable heat.
"Such as?" I prompted.
"That he'd break his neck the first time he tried to walk across a waxed floor! And that he'd probably have to be taught the difference between asparagus-tongs and an oyster fork!"
I realized that I was beginning to find out things about Michael O'Toole. And they were throwing not a little light on the problem confronting me.
"But surely the man's not a boiler-maker?" I inquired.
"Of course he's not!" was the indignant response.
"Then what is he?"
The heavy look went out of her thin young face.
"It doesn't matter with me what he is. All I know is that last summer at Long Beach he saved my life!"
