"Nor forty thousand," she murmured.

"I should think, ma'am, you'd crinkle more than a silk-lined lady
sailing down a church aisle on Sunday."

A picture in the magazine she was toying with seemed to interest
her.

"I expect that's the signal for 'Exit Collins.' I'll say good-by
till next time, Miss Mackenzie."

"Oh, is there going to be a next time?" she asked, with elaborate
carelessness.

"Several of them."

"Indeed!"

He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote.

"I ain't the son of a prophet, but I'm venturing a prediction,"
he explained.

She had nothing to say, and she said it competently.

"Concerning an investment in futurities I'm making," he
continued.

Her magazine article seemed to be beginning, well.