of the room was the brick fireplace with its spotless tiled hearth. One of Mr. Pantin's diversions was sitting before the glowing coals, whisk and shovel in hand, waiting for an ash to drop.
Seeing Mrs. Toomey, Mr. Pantin again hastily thrust his toes into his slippers—partly because he was cognizant of the fact that no real gentleman will receive a lady in his stocking feet, and partly to conceal the neat but large dam on the toe of one sock. He was courteous amiability itself, and Mrs. Toomey's hopes shot up.
"I came to have a little talk."
"Yes?"
Mr. Pantin's smile deceived her and she plunged on with confidence:
"I—we would like to arrange for a loan, Mr. Pantin."
"To what amount, Mrs. Toomey?"
Mrs. Toomey considered.
"As much as you could conveniently spare."
The smile which Mr. Pantin endeavored to conceal was genuine.
"For what length of time? "
Mrs. Toomey had not thought of that.
"I could not say exactly—not off-hand like this—but I presume only until my husband gets into something."
"Has he—er—anything definite in view?"
"I wouldn't say definite, not definite, but he has several irons in the fire and we expect to hear soon."
"I see." Mr. Pantin's manner was urbane but, observing him closely, Mrs. Toomey noted that his eye ssuddenly presented the curious illusion of two slate-gray pools covered with skim ice. It was not an encouraging sign and her heart sank in spite of the superlative suavity the tone in which he inquired:
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