When the sittings were finally decided upon she opened her purse.
"It is so good of you to take time from your business to wait on me," she told him; and then, in naïve confusion: "I--I asked poppa to make out a check, but I don't know whether it is big enough."
Raymer took the order to pay, glanced at the amount, and from that to the velvety eyes with the half-abashed query in them. Miss Grierson's eyes were her most effective weapon. With them she could look anything, from daggers drawn to kisses. Just now the look was of child-like beseeching, but Raymer withstood it--or thought he did.
"It is more than twice as much as we get for the best locations," he demurred. "Wait a minute and I'll write you a check for the difference and give you a receipt."
But at the word she was on her feet in an eager flutter of protest.
"Oh, please don't!" she pleaded. "If it is really too much, can't you put the difference in the missionary box, or in the--in the rector's salary?--as a little donation from us, you know?"
Then Edward Raymer found that he had not withstood the eye-attack and he surrendered at discretion, compromising on a receipt for the pew-rent. Thus the small matter of business was concluded; but Miss Margery was not yet ready to go. From St. John's and its affairs official she passed deftly to the junior warden of St. John's and his affairs personal. Was the machine works the place where they made steam-engines and things? And did the sign, "No Admittance," on the doors mean that no visitors were allowed? If not, she would so much like to----
Raymer smiled and put himself once more at her service, this time as guide and megaphonist. It was all very noisy and grimy, but if she cared to go through the works he would be glad to go with her.
He did not know how glad he was going to be until they had passed through the clamorous machine-shop and had reached the comparatively quiet foundry. One of Miss Margery's gifts was the ability to become for the moment an active and sympathetic sharer in any one's enthusiasms. In the foundry she looked and listened, and was unsophisticated only to the degree that invites explanation. It was a master-stroke of finesse. A man is never so transparent as when he forgets himself in his own trade-talk; and Raymer was unrolling himself as a scroll for Miss Grierson to read as she ran.