"Oh--oh," he muttered.

He pulled out a cigar-case and a box of matches and spent a long time
getting a light.

Then with a glance of inquiry, he said, "Edith Parker?"

"Why, don't you know her?" I asked.

"I know a half a hundred Parkers," he replied. "I may know Edith
Parker, but I can't recall her."

"This one is your book-keeper's daughter," I said with considerable
heat.

"Indeed," said he calmly. "Parker--Parker--I thought our book-keeper's
name was Smyth. Yes--I'm quite sure it's Smyth."

"But Tim says it's Parker," said I. "Tim ought to know."

"Tim should know," laughed Weston. "I guess he does know better than
I. A minute ago I would have sworn it was Smyth; but to tell the
truth, I never gave any attention to such details of business. Well,
Edith is my book-keeper's daughter."

"She lives in Brooklyn," said I, "and she is very beautiful. Every
letter I get from Tim, the more beautiful she becomes, for in all my
life I never heard of a fellow as frank as he is. Usually men hide
what sentiment they have except from a few women, but his letters make
me blush when I read them."