language," she said. "If I were to tell you how many clouds I've seen
and how little silver, you'd think I was lying. This experience? Why,
it's a joy compared to some of the jolts we've had,--dad and me. And
the others, too, for that matter. We've had to get used to it. Five
years ago I would have jumped out of a ten story window before I'd
have let you see me in this get-up. I know you'll laugh yourself sick
over the way I look, and so will your friends when you tell them about
me, but, thank the Lord, I shan't be in a position to hear you. So why
should I mind? What a fellow doesn't know, isn't going to hurt him.
You haven't laughed in my face, and I'm grateful for that. What you do
afterward can't make the least bit of difference to me."

"I assure you, Miss Thackeray, that I shall not laugh, nor shall I
ever relate the story of your--"

"There is one more bromide that I've never found much virtue in," she
interrupted, not disagreeably, "and that is: 'it's too good to be
true.' Good night. Sleep tight."

She closed the door behind her, leaving him standing in the middle of
the room, perplexed but amused.

"By George," he said to himself, still staring at the closed door,
"they're wonders, all of them. We could all take lessons in philosophy
from such as they. I wish I could do something to help them out of--"
He sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed and pulled his wallet from
his pocket. He set about counting the bills, a calculating frown in
his eyes. Then he stared at the ceiling, summing up. "I'll do it," he
said, after a moment of mental figuring. He told off a half dozen
bills and slipped them into his pocket. The wallet sought its usual