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He stared with his good goggle eyes—he laughed out. "Why on earth—? But do you suppose I'd tell you if he had?"

"He hasn't really borrowed the most dreadful sums?"

Mitchy was highly diverted. "Why should he? For what, please?"

"That's just it—for what? What does he do with it all? What in the world becomes of it?"

"Well," Mitchy suggested, "he's saving up to start a business. Harold's irreproachable—hasn't a vice. Who knows in these days what may happen? He sees further than any young man I know. Do let him save."

She looked far away with her sweet world-weariness. "If you weren't an angel it would be a horror to be talking to you. But I insist on knowing." She insisted now with her absurdly pathetic eyes on him. "What kind of sums?"

"You shall never, never find out—not if you were never to speak to me again," Mr. Mitchett replied with extravagant firmness. "Harold's one of my great amusements—I really have awfully few; and if you deprive me of him you'll be a fiend. There are only one or two things I want to live for, but one of them is to see how far Harold will go. Please give me some more tea."