" Octavia picked up the morning
paper from the floor. "But I'm not going to 'squeal'--isn't that
what they call it when you rail at Fortune because you've, lost the
game?" She turned the pages of the paper calmly. "'Stock market'--no
use for that. 'Society's doings'--that's done. Here is my page--the
wish column. A Van Dresser could not be said to 'want' for anything,
of course. 'Chamber-maids, cooks, canvassers, stenographers--'"
"Dear," said Aunt Ellen, with a little tremor in her voice, "please do
not talk in that way. Even if your affairs are in so unfortunate a
condition, there is my three thousand--"
Octavia sprang up lithely, and deposited a smart kiss on the delicate
cheek of the prim little elderly maid.
"Blessed auntie, your three thousand is just sufficient to insure your
Hyson to be free from willow leaves and keep the Persian in sterilized
cream. I know I'd be welcome, but I prefer to strike bottom like
Beelzebub rather than hang around like the Peri listening to the music
from the side entrance. I'm going to earn my own living. There's
nothing else to do. I'm a--Oh, oh, oh!--I had forgotten. There's
one thing saved from the wreck. It's a corral--no, a ranch in--let
me see--Texas: an asset, dear old Mr. Bannister called it.
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