Madame Beattie blinked a little, and her mind came back.
"Ten thousand," she tossed him at a venture, in a violence of haste.
Alston shook his head.
"Too much," said he.
Madame Beattie, who had not known a tear for twenty years at least, could have cried then, the money had seemed so unreasonably, so incredibly near.
"You've got oceans of money," said she, in a passion of eagerness, "all you Addington bigwigs. You put it away and let it keep ticking on while you eat noon dinners and walk down town. What is two thousand pounds to you? In another year you wouldn't know it."
"I sha'n't haggle," said Alston. "I'll tell you precisely what I'll put into your hand—with conditions—if you agree to make this your farewell appearance. I'll give you five thousand dollars. And as a thrifty Addingtonian—you know what we are—I advise you to take it. I might repent."
She leaned toward him and put a shaking hand on his knee.
"I'll take it," she said. "I'll sign whatever you say. Give me the money now. You wouldn't ask me to wait, Alston Choate. You wouldn't play a trick on me."
Alston drew himself up from his lounging ease, and as he lifted the trembling old hand from his knee, gave it a friendly pressure before he let it fall.