Get
shed of her, Paloma, and we'll fumigate the house."
At that moment Mrs. Strange herself opened the kitchen door to
inquire, "Is anything wrong?" Misreading Blaze's expression for
one of pain, she exclaimed: "Mercy! Now, what have you done to
yourself?"
But the object of her solicitude backed away, making peculiar
clucking sounds deep in his throat. Paloma was saying:
"This is my father, Mrs. Strange. You and he have never happened
to meet before."
"Why, yes we have! I know you," the seamstress exclaimed. Then a
puzzled light flickered in her black eyes. "Seems to me we've met
somewhere, but--I've met so many people." She extended her hand,
and Blaze took it as if expecting to find it cold and scaly. He
muttered something unintelligible. "I've been dying to see you,"
she told him, "and thank you for giving me Paloma's work. I love
you both for it."
Blaze was immensely relieved that this dreaded crisis had come and
gone; but wishing to make assurance doubly sure, he contorted his
features into a smile the like of which his daughter had never
seen, and in a disguised voice inquired, "Now where do you reckon
you ever saw me?"
The seamstress shook her head.
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