your wife up here, and I’ll see what I can do.”
But here again feminine capriciousness was exemplified. Having apparently won her point, Isabel Beckford began to wish she had lost it.
“I’m afraid,” she said. “Suppose I should find that something frightful was the matter with me? Those insurance doctors are awfully particular, and – and – I’d rather not know it, if I’m going to die very soon.”
“Oh, very well,” acquiesced her husband. “We’ll go back to my original plan and put the whole ten thousand dollars on my life.”
“No, no, no!” she protested. “It would be even worse, if I learned that there was anything wrong with you. I couldn’t bear it, Harry; I couldn’t, really! There wouldn’t be anything left in life for me. Let’s not go at all.”
“That’s foolish, Isabel,” he argued. “I’m all right, and the very fact that I am accepted as a good risk will remove every doubt.”
“That’s so,” she admitted. “We’ll be sure, then, won’t we?”
“Of course.”
“Then we’ll both go,” she announced, with a sudden reversal of judgment. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I’ll feel a lot better and stronger when I’m insured, because the companies are so particular, and it will be comforting to know that you are all right. It’s worth something to find that out, isn’t it? And sometimes a family physician won’t tell you the truth, because it won’t do any good and he doesn’t want to frighten you. We’ll go right away and see about it now.”
“Hardly this evening,” he answered, smiling, although he was sorely troubled. “We’ll go to-morrow afternoon.”
“But it’s so long to wait until to-morrow,” she pouted.
He regretted the delay quite as much as she did, for his experience up to date led him to think that there might be another change. First she had refused to consider the matter at all; then she had insisted they should go together; after that she had backed out; next she had demanded he should give up the idea, also; and now she was again determined it should be a joint affair.
“No man,” he muttered, as he dropped off to sleep, “knows anything about a woman until he marries, and then he only learns enough to know that he knows nothing at all.”
Then he mentally apologized to his wife for even this mild criticism, and dreamed that, through some complication, he had to insure the cook and the janitor and the grocer’s boy before he could take out a policy on his own life, and that, when he had attended to the rest, he had no money left for his own premiums, so he made all the other policies in favor of his wife and hoped to thunder that the cook and the janitor and the grocer’s boy would die a long time before he did.
However, she was still of the same mind the next day, so they went to see Murray.
“Of course,” she said, as they were on the way, “if this thing wrecks our happiness by showing that the grave is yawning for either of us, it will be all your fault.”
That made him feel nice and comfortable – so nice and comfortable that he heartily wished he never had mentioned life insurance. Still, he cheered up a little when Murray took charge of matters in a masterly, confident way.
“I understand, Mrs. Beckford,” said Murray, “that both you and your husband wish to have your lives insured.”
“Yes,” she replied, “and for some reason he has selfishly wanted to put all the insurance we can afford on his own life.”
“So he has told me.”
“What right had he to discuss family matters with you?” she demanded with asperity.
Thus Murray was jarred out of his air of easy confidence the first thing.
“Why – why, he didn’t exactly tell me,” he explained, “but my experience enabled me to surmise as much. Most men are like that.”
“I never thought Harry would be,” she said, looking at him reproachfully. “But it’s all right now,” she added.
“Yes, it’s all right now,” repeated Murray. He had intended to argue first the advisability of accepting her husband’s plan, but he deemed it unwise. He had suddenly lost faith in his powers of persuasion, so he resorted to guile. “Of course, you understand that life insurance is hedged about by many annoying restrictions,” he went on.
“I didn’t know it,” she returned.
“Oh, yes,” he said glibly, with a wink at Beckford. “Do you use gasoline at all?”
“Why, I have used it occasionally to take a spot out of a gown,” she admitted.
“Barred!” asserted Murray.
“I can’t do even the least little mite of cleaning with gasoline!” she exclaimed in dismay.
“None at all! It’s dangerous! Might just as well fool with nitroglycerin. People who handle it at all become careless.”
There were indications of a rising temper. That a mean old insurance company should have the audacity to tell her what she could or could not do was an outrage!
“And you can’t use street-cars,” added Murray.
“Can’t use street-cars!” she cried. “What will Harry do?”
“Oh, that rule doesn’t apply to men,” returned Murray calmly, “for men don’t get off the cars backward and all that sort of thing. Street-cars are considered, in our business, a danger only for women.”
“Well, it’s a hateful, insulting, unfair business!” she cried, rising in her indignation. “I wouldn’t let such a contemptible lot of people insure me for anything in the world.”
“But please don’t blame me,” urged Murray insinuatingly. “I want to do the best I can for you.”
“Oh, I don’t blame you,” she returned magnanimously.
“I admit that it sounds unfair,” Murray persisted, “but there was a time when we wouldn’t take risks on women at all, so, even with the restrictions, it’s quite a concession.”
“Oh, very likely, very likely,” she admitted, “but I have too much pride to accept any such humiliating conditions. Harry can do as he pleases,” with dignity, “but nothing could induce me to be insured now. I’m going home.”
Harry took her to a cab, and then returned to Murray’s office.
“Well, it’s settled,” said Murray, with a sigh of relief.
“Yes, it’s settled,” returned Beckford, “but I don’t feel just comfortable about it.”
“She sort of bowled me over the first thing,” commented Murray. “I haven’t quite recovered yet. But it’s her welfare that we’re considering. Better put in your application and take the examination before there are any more complications.”
“Perhaps that’s wise,” admitted Beckford gloomily, for he was not at all at ease about the matter. She had said he could do as he pleased, but there had been something in her tone that was disquieting; she might think there was disloyalty in his patronage of a company that had so offended her. And this was the first cloud that had appeared in the matrimonial sky; in all else there had been mutual concession and perfect agreement.
He was thinking of this when he went home – and found her in tears.
“I know what’s the matter,” she wailed. “I didn’t think of it at first, but I did afterward, and I’ve been crying ever since. I have heart trouble; that’s why he didn’t want to give me a policy.”
“Nonsense!” he protested vigorously.
“Oh, I know it! I know it!” she cried. “He didn’t want to tell me, so he put in all that about street-cars and gasoline. But it’s heart trouble or consumption! Those insurance men are so quick to see things that no one else notices. Why,