CHAPTER XXIII.

LAID UP.

Harriet Holden was sitting in Elizabeth's boudoir. "And he had the
effrontery," the latter was saying, "to tell me what I must do and must
not do! The idea! A miserable little milk-wagon driver dictating to me!"

Miss Holden smiled.

"I should not call him very little," she remarked.

"I didn't mean physically," retorted Elizabeth. "It is absolutely
insufferable. I am going to demand that father discharge the man."

"And suppose he asks you why?" asked Harriet. "You will tell him, of
course, that you want this person discharged because he protected you
from the insults and attacks of a ruffian while you were dining in
Feinheimer's at night--is that it?"

"You are utterly impossible, Harriet!" cried Elizabeth, stamping her
foot. "You are as bad as that efficiency person. But, then, I might have
expected it! You have always, it seems to me, shown a great deal more
interest in the fellow than necessary, and probably the fact that Harold
doesn't like him is enough to make you partial toward him, for you have
never tried to hide the fact that you don't like Harold."

"If you're going to be cross," said Harriet, "I think I shall go home."