“I told you he was a count,” she said, after relating. “He never would carry on with me.”
“But you say he showed money,” said the cook.
“Hundreds of thousands,” said Annette. “Carried around loose in his pockets. And he never would look at me.”
“It was paid to me to-day,” Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. “It came from my grandfather’s estate. Say, Cele, what’s the use of waiting now? I’m going to quit the job to-night. Why can’t we get married next week?”
“Tommy,” said Celia, “I’m no parlor maid. I’ve been fooling you. I’m Miss Spraggins—Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I’ll be worth forty million dollars some day.”
Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time since we have known him.
“I suppose then,” said he, “I suppose then you’ll not be marrying me next week. But you can whistle.”
“No,” said Celia, “I’ll not be marrying you next week. My father would never let me marry a grocer’s clerk. But I’ll marry you to-night, Tommy, if you say so.”
Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsubsidized fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you its voltage and
