THE FIGHTING SHEPHERDESS
To her, the resemblance between the two was very noticeable, and another meeting with Prentiss made her marvel that no one observed it but herself. In spite of the different spelling of the name, was there, perchance, some relationship? The persistent thought filled her with a vague disquietude. It was so strongly in her mind while they dressed for the affair at the Prouty House that Toomey's conversation was largely a soliloquy.
Surveying himself complacently in the glass, it pleased Mr. Toomey to be jocose.
"Say, Old Girl, how long will it take you to pack your war-bag when I get this deal pulled off? It's a safe bet that this cross roads can't see me for dust, once I get that commission in my mitt." He turned and looked at her sharply. "What's the matter now, Mrs. Kill-joy? Where's it hurting the worst?"
Mrs. Toomey continued to powder the red tip of her nose until it showed pink.
"You're about as cheerful as an open grave—takes all the heart out of me just to look at your face. Speak up, Little Sunbeam, and tell Papa what you got on your chest?"
Mrs. Toomey laid down the powder puff.
"What if there should be some slip-up, Jap? We're letting ourselves in for a dreadful disappointment if we count on it too much."
He shook off her hands from his shoulders with an exasperated twitch.
"You're the origninal Death's Head, Dell! Don't you suppose I know what I'm talking about? It'll go through," confidently. "What's made you think it won't?"
Mrs. Toomey hesitated, then timidly:
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