"I'm not going home, Mr. Winfield."
"What?"
"If you are going to Bill, I am coming with you."
"Nonsense."
"That's my place--with him."
"But you can't. It's impossible."
"Not more impossible than what has happened already."
"I won't take you."
"Then I'll go by train. I know where your house is. Steve told me."
"It's out of the question."
Mamie's Irish temper got the better of her professional desire to
maintain the discreetly respectful attitude of employee toward
employer.
"Is it then? We'll see. Do you think I'm going to leave you and Steve
to look after my Bill? What do men know about taking care of children?
You would choke the poor mite or let him kill himself a hundred ways."
She glared at him defiantly. He glared back at her. Then his sense of
humour came to his rescue. She looked so absurdly small standing there
with her chin up and her fists clenched. He laughed delightedly. He
went up to her and placed a hand on each of her shoulders, looking down
at her. He felt that he loved her for her championship of Bill.
"You're a brick, Mamie. Of course you shall come. We'll call at the house
and you can pack your grip. But, by George, if you put that infernal
thermometer in I'll run the automobile up against a telegraph-pole, and
then Bill will lose us both."
"Finished?" said a voice.
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