“One hundred per,” said Teddy, glibly, “and found.”
“I’ve a good mind to discharge you.”
“Can’t do it,” said Teddy, with a grin.
“Why not?” demanded Octavia, with argumentative heat.
“Under contract. Terms of sale respect all unexpired contracts. Mine runs until 12 p.m., December thirty-first. You might get up at midnight on that date and fire me. If you try it sooner I’ll be in a position to bring legal proceedings.”
Octavia seemed to be considering the prospects of litigation.
“But,” continued Teddy cheerfully, “I’ve been thinking of resigning anyway.”
Octavia’s rocking-chair ceased its motion. There were centipedes in this country, she felt sure; and Indians; and vast, lonely, desolate, empty wastes; all within strong barbed-wire fence. There was a Van Dresser pride, but there was also a Van Dresser heart. She must know for certain whether or not he had forgotten.
“Ah, well, Teddy,” she said, with a fine assumption of polite interest, “it’s lonely down here; you’re longing to get back to the old life—to polo and lobsters and theatres and balls.”
“Never cared much for balls,” said Teddy virtuously.
“Youre getting old, Teddy. Your memory is failing. Nobody ever knew you to miss a dance, unless it occurred on the same night with another one which you attended. And you showed such shocking bad taste,
