get money—”
“You shall not!” Embury grasped the wrists of the hands he still held, and his face was fiercely frowning. “You are my wife, and whatever you may or may not owe to me, you owe it to our position, to our standing in the community to do nothing beneath your dignity or mine!”
“You care nothing for my dignity, for my appearance before other women, so why should I consider your dignity? You force me to it, and it is therefore your fault if I—”
“What is it you propose to do? How are you going to get this absurd paltry sum you are making such a fuss about?”
“That I decline to tell you—”
“Don’t you dare to do needlework or anything that would make me look foolish. I forbid it!”
“And I scorn your forbidding! Make you look foolish, indeed! When you make me look foolish every day of my life, because I can’t do as other women do—can’t have what other wives have—”
“Now, now, Tiger, don’t make such a row over nothing—let’s talk it over seriously—”
“There’s nothing to talk over. I’ve asked you time and again for an allowance of money—real money, not charge accounts—and you always refuse—”
“And always shall, if you are so ugly about it! Why must you fly into a rage over it? Your temper is—”
“My temper is roused by your cruelty—”
“Cruelty!”
“Yes; it’s as much cruelty as if you struck me! You deny me my heart’s dearest wish for no reason whatever—”
“It’s enough that I don’t approve of an allowance—”
“It ought to be enough that I do!”
“No, no, my lady! I love you, I adore you, but I am not the sort of man to lie down and let you walk over me! I give you everything you want and if I reserve the privilege of paying for it myself, it does not seem to me a crime!”
“Oh, do hush up, Sanford! You drive me frantic! You prate the same foolishness, over and over! I don’t want to hear any more about it. You said you had spoken the last word on the subject, now stop it! I, too, have said my final say. I shall do as I please, and I shall not consider myself accountable to you for my actions.”
“Confound it! Do what you please, then! I wash my hands of your nonsense! But be careful how you carry the name I have given you!”
“If you keep on, I may decide not to carry it at all—”
Eunice was interrupted by the entrance of Ferdinand, announcing the arrival of Mason Elliott.
Trained in the school of convention, both the Emburys became at once the courteous, cordial host and hostess.
“Hello, Elliott,” sang out Sanford, “glad to see your bright and happy face. Come right along and chum in.”
Eunice offered her hand with a welcoming smile.
“Just the boy I was looking for,” she said, “we’ve the jolliest game on for the afternoon. Haven’t we, San?”
“Fool trick, if you ask me! Howsumever, everything goes. Interested in thought-transference bunk, Elliott?”
“I know what you’re getting at.” Mason Elliott nodded his head understandingly. “Hendricks put me wise. So, I says to myself, s’posin’ I hop along and listen in. Yes, I am interested, sufficiently so not to mind your jeers about bunk and that.”
“Oh, do you believe in it, Mason?” said Eunice, animatedly; “for this is a faked affair—or, rather, the explanation of one. It’s the Hanlon boy, you know—”
“Yes; I know. But what’s the racket with you two turtle-doves? I come in, and find Eunice wearing the pet expression of a tragedy queen and Sanford, here, doing the irate husband. Going into the movies?”
“Yes, that’s it,” and Eunice smiled bravely, although her lips still quivered from her recent turbulent quarrel, and a light, jaunty air was forced to conceal her lingering nervousness.
“Irate husband is good!” laughed Embury, “considering we are yet honeymooners.”
“Good dissemblers, both of you,” and Elliott settled himself in an easy chair, “but you don’t fool your old friend. Talk about thought-transference—it doesn’t take much of that commodity to read that you two were interrupted by my entrance in the middle of a real, honest-to-goodness, cats’-and-dogs’ quarrel.”
“All right, have it your own way,” and Embury laughed shortly; “but it wasn’t the middle of it, it was about over.”
“All but the making up! Shall I fade away for fifteen minutes?”
“No,” protested Eunice. “It was only one of the little tiffs that happen in the best families! Now, listen, Mason—”
“My dear lady, I live but on the chance of being permitted to listen to you—only in the hope that I may listen early and often—”
“Oh, hush! What a silly you are!”
“Silly, is it? Remember I was your childhood playmate. Would you have kept me on your string all these years if I were silly? And here’s another of my childhood friends! How do you do, most gracious lady?”
With courtly deference Elliott rose to greet Aunt Abby, who came into the living-room from Eunice’s bedroom.
Her black silk rustled and her old point lace fell yellowly round her slender old hands, for on Sunday afternoon Miss Ames dressed the part.
“How are you, Mason,” she said, but with a preoccupied air. “What time is Mr. Hanlon coming, Eunice?”
“Soon now, I think,” and Eunice spoke with entire composure, her angry excitement all subdued. It was characteristic of her that after a fit of temper, she was more than usually soft and gentle. More considerate of others and even, more roguishly merry.
“You know, Mason, that what we are to be told to-day is a most inviolable secret—that is, it is a secret until tomorrow.”
“Never put off till to-morrow what you can tell to-night,” returned Elliott, but he listened attentively while Eunice and Aunt Abby described the performance of the young man Hanlon.
“Of course,” Elliott observed, a little disappointedly, “if he says he hoaxed the crowd, of course he did; but in that case I’ve no interest in the thing. I’d like it better if he were honest.”
“Oh, he’s honest enough,” corrected Embury; “he owns right up that it was a trick. Why, good heavens, man! if it hadn’t been, he couldn’t have done it at all. I’m rather keen to know just how he managed, though, for the yarn of Eunice and Aunt Abby is a bit mystifying.”
“Don’t depend too much on the tale of interested spectators. They’re the worst possible witnesses! They see only what they wish to see.”
“Only what Hanlon wished us to see,” corrected Eunice, gaily. And then Hanlon, himself, and Alvord Hendricks arrived together.
“Met on the doorstep,” said Hendricks as he came in. “Mr. Hanlon is a little stage-struck, so it’s lucky I happened along.”
Willy Hanlon, as he was called in the papers, came shyly forward and Eunice, with her ready tact, proceeded to put him at once at his ease.
“You came just at the right minute to help me out,” she said, smiling at him. “They are saying women are no good at describing a scene! They say that we can’t be relied on for accuracy. So, now you’re here and you can tell what really happened.”
“Yes, ma’am,” and Hanlon swallowed, a little embarrassedly; “that’s what I came for, ma’am. But first, are you all straight goods? Will you all promise not to tell what I tell you before tomorrow morning?”
They all promised on their honor, and, satisfied, Hanlon began his tale.
“You