THE BETTER SORT
Mamie took her eyes quickly from the money on the little stand. "You may say what you like."
"I only mean that anything awkward you may have to keep out of the way does seem to make more wonderful, doesn't it, that you should have got just where you are? I allude, you know, to your position."
"I see." Miss Cutter somewhat coldly smiled. "To my power."
"So awfully remarkable in an American."
"Ah, you like us so."
Mrs. Medwin candidly considered. "But we don't, dearest."
Her companion's smile brightened. "Then why do you come to me?"
"Oh, I like you!" Mrs. Medwin made out.
"Then that's it. There are no 'Americans.' It's always 'you.'"
"Me?" Mrs. Medwin looked lovely, but a little muddled.
"Me!" Mamie Cutter laughed. "But if you like me, you dear thing, you can judge if I like you." She gave her a kiss to dismiss her. "I'll see you again when I've seen her."
"Lady Wantridge? I hope so, indeed. I'll turn up late to-morrow, if you don't catch me first. Has it come to you yet?" the visitor, now at the door, went on.
"No; but it will. There's time."
"Oh, a little less every day!"
Miss Cutter had approached the table and glanced again at the gold and silver and the note, not indeed absolutely overlooked the two coppers. "The balance," she put it, "the day after?"
"That very night, if you like."
"Then count on me."
"Oh, if I didn't———!" But the door closed on the dark idea. Yearningly then, and only when it had done so, Miss Cutter took up the money.
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