“Oh, I see. And the little red-haired one, does she write books, too?”
“No; she’s an artist. She smokes too, though. Not cigars, like yours, but cigarettes. She’s supposed to be a very good painter, but she doesn’t make what Carrie—lyn makes. The girls have very good positions in Miss Abrams’ school.”
“Um, what do they get, now?”
Miss Trueman mentioned the modest sum with pride.
“And then with my money and what we get from the rent of the place—the girls and I each have a third, you know—we do very nicely.”
“So you rented the place?”
“Yes, Cousin Lorando, though I hated to. But I wouldn’t sell it, though they wanted me to. I just couldn’t.”
“I know.”
He lighted his cigar and puffed at it in meditative silence for a moment, while the babble from the parlor floated in
